


Bagshot Row

by myrtlebroadbelt



Series: Under The Hill [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Baby Bilbo Baggins, Bag End, Bagshot Row, Childbirth, F/M, Family, Gen, Hobbit Culture, Hobbits, Humor, Marriage, Pregnancy, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:50:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrtlebroadbelt/pseuds/myrtlebroadbelt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bungo Baggins has finally built his dream house, but he nearly lost his head in the process. Eight and a half years later, with no children and no neighbors, he and his wife Belladonna decide to build themselves some company. It's not long before they discover there’s slightly more company in store for them than they bargained for.</p><p>What follows is a story of nine months, three houses, two feuding fathers-in-law, and one unexpected adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Afteryule

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [Mr. Baggins Builds His Dream House](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2820797/chapters/6328049). Knowledge of that fic isn’t necessary to read this one, but there will be occasional references to previous events.

As soon as Minto Bramble sees Bungo Baggins on his front porch, he slams the door shut.

Bungo stares at the immaculate blue paint and the burnished brass knob and can’t really blame him. This is, after all, the very architect who once fled his kitchen in a fluster, politely requesting to never hear from him ever again. It appears that request still stands.

Politeness, however, is a powerful thing, as Bungo knows all too well, and it seems to have gotten the better of Bramble. Bungo hardly has a chance to consider turning around and heading home before the door is creaking open again and Minto is peeking out at him, his face a particularly bright shade of embarrassment.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Baggins. That was incredibly rude of me, and there’s absolutely no excuse.”

“That’s quite all right, Minto,” Bungo assures him, not about to get offended over something he was expecting to happen.

“I don’t know what came over me,” Minto continues, holding the door open wider now and stepping to one side. “Please, come in. Shall I take your cloak?”

Bungo steps out of the nippy winter air and into the warm entrance hall, unfastening his wool cloak and handing it to Minto.

“Tea?” Minto offers after he’s hung the garment from a peg.

“Yes, please,” Bungo agrees, rubbing his palms together.

Minto hovers for a moment, caught between the entrance and the adjoining parlor, eyeing Bungo nervously. “I really am sorry for…”

Bungo waves him off. “Don’t bother yourself about it. Perhaps we can call things even.”

This appears to make Minto even more uneasy. The architect flashes a weak smile before striding through the parlor and into the kitchen.

Well, this is shaping up to be awkward.

Minto’s Bywater residence is tidy, with a drawing board in the corner of the parlor and neat sketches papering the walls in a detailed timeline of his work. Bungo examines the colorless ink-and-parchment rendering of his own house and decides it really does it no justice without the green.

“How long has it been since you built Bag End, Mr. Baggins?” Minto calls from the kitchen.

“Eight and a half years,” Bungo replies.

Eight and a half years. Has it really been eight and a half years? Whether it feels longer or shorter he can’t decide, but it certainly doesn’t feel like eight and a half years.

“I hope the place has been to your liking.” Minto reappears to set a tray of tea down beside a pair of leather-upholstered armchairs near the fire.

“Oh yes, we like it very much,” Bungo tells him now, “thanks to your excellent design.”

He watches Minto unbutton his jacket—plush rust-colored velvet—to sit, and joins him, adjusting his own silvery silk waistcoat as if he’s entering into some sort of sartorial duel.

“Spacious, comfortable,” Bungo continues. “Haven’t needed any repairs, save for repainting the door every now and then. The wardrobe door sticks sometimes in the bedroom, but I suppose you’re not to blame for that.”

“Perhaps I wrote it into the plans,” Minto jokes.

They both laugh, forcefully, but when Minto looks away to lift his teacup, Bungo’s eyes narrow. He wouldn’t possibly have… Would he? He does his best to shake off the possibility.

When they’ve both sipped their fill of tea and uncomfortable silence, Minto speaks: “So what brings you here today?”

Bungo sets his cup aside. “I had something I wanted to ask you.”

To say Minto looks nervous would be an understatement.

Bungo keeps talking. “I’m not sure if you know this, but when the dwarves were excavating Bag End, there was quite a bit of dirt left over that they didn’t cart off. It was rather inconvenient at first, but we covered it with grass and planned to build a new row of holes into it.”

“I know about the dirt, but not about the plans,” Minto tells him, and Bungo can see that he’s already made up his mind before the question has even been posed. Whether or not he’s ready to give his answer is another thing.

“Well,” Bungo continues anyway, “we still haven’t followed through with it. We weren’t exactly in the mood for more construction at the time. But for various reasons, we—that is, Belladonna and I—have decided that it’s time to dig in.” Bungo takes a deep breath. “And we’d like you to help us.”

“Mr. Baggins,” Minto says, leaning forward carefully, “I’m flattered by your request, but I’m afraid I’m very busy at the moment, and I’m simply unable to take on another project.”

“I know we didn’t part on the best terms,” Bungo acknowledges, “and that’s why you shut the door on me a few moments ago. I’m sorry if we came across as… unrefined… in our… enthusiasm…” If that’s what you call manic, uninformed scribbling on a carefully drawn floorplan. “We rather embarrassed ourselves, I’ll admit. But you simply caught us at the wrong time, you see. It won’t happen again. I assure you, we’re very respectable.”

Bungo quickly shoves away any and all memories and knowledge that might disprove that statement, using all his strength of mind to force the pile of wizards and fireworks and remarkable sisters-in-law into a locked compartment and throwing away the key.

“Mr. Baggins,” Minto starts again, but Bungo cuts him off.

“We’ll pay you double for it,” he blurts, and Minto quirks a brow. “I can promise you the respectability, but if it’s the money that will convince you to do it, then my wife can offer you that. And so can I,” he adds, to save his pride. “But mostly my wife,” he concedes, to save his honesty.

Minto narrows his eyes. “You’d do that just to hire me? Why?”

“Because you’re nearby, and from what I’ve seen you’re very reliable. And because I love Bag End, which you designed. Very wonderfully, as I already mentioned. I’d like whoever else lives under The Hill to feel as at home as we do.”

Minto considers this, bringing his teacup to his lips thoughtfully. One sip, two sips, three sips. Each one represents a skipped heartbeat for Bungo.

At last the architect sets the cup aside and sighs. “Very well. How many houses were you considering?”

Bungo blinks. “I, uh… I hadn’t really considered it.” To be honest, he wasn’t very confident that Minto would agree to help in the first place. He must admit he’s rather impressed with himself, although it will take more than a few sips of tea to quell the storm that’s currently raging in his stomach over the proceedings. “Do you have a suggestion?”

Half an hour later, the two of them have agreed that three holes is the best number. They’ve decided on a general size for each, as well as the price of construction. (Minto accepts Bungo’s higher price, justifying their agreement as a special arrangement. His existing projects will take priority.) The papers are signed, and Bungo feels encouraged by how well everything seems to be going. However, he knows from experience how quickly things can take a turn for the terrible, so he’s trying not to get his hopes up.

When they’re just about done, Bungo finally thinks to ask how long all of this will take, from start to finish.

“Let’s see.” Minto moves to his drawing board and begins scratching figures on parchment. “Based on the amount of workers available, combined with the number of houses, taking into consideration their general size, and the projects I’m already working on, I’d say it will take approximately… nine months.” He turns his head as if remembering something. “Oh, I never asked. Do you have children, Mr. Baggins?”

“No.” Bungo clears his throat. “Nine months is rather a long time. Is there no way to shorten that?”

“I’m afraid not, unless you minimize the size or number of the holes. Like I said before, I’m very busy at the moment, and I’m afraid this isn’t the most ideal climate for building. Things will be slower.”

“Well,” Bungo sighs, standing. “I’ve waited this long. What’s a few more months?”

If only he knew.

* * *

Bungo walks through the door of Bag End to the sound of laughter. It would seem they have visitors. He hopes it’s not family. The Tooks are too excitable and the Bagginses too particular, neither of which is an ideal audience for the news he’d like to share.

So imagine his delight to find a round belly and matching round cheeks stuffed into a chair by the fire and flanked by a golden-haired lady hobbit and two equally golden children.

“Olo, my dear fellow, what a lovely surprise!” Bungo exclaims, motioning for the hobbit to remain seated and hurrying over to place a pat on his shoulder. “And Mrs. Danderfluff, Grigory, Cora,” he adds, nodding to each of them in turn.

“Your missus invited us last week when she was visiting Tuckborough,” Olo explains. “I brought a chicken.”

“You and your chickens are always welcome here,” Bungo responds with a smile.

Bungo and Olo have been on friendly terms since Bag End was built. He’d grown to like the jolly butcher after spending a rather unusual but eye-opening night in his home, and Olo had grown to like Bungo even more than he already did thanks to the slogan he gave him for his prized ham product: _If you’re not eating Hamfast, you’re not eating breakfast._ Bungo made no pretense of concocting the saying himself. That credit belongs to his gardener Holman, who also gained Olo’s undying admiration, not to mention a lifetime supply of Hamfast.

“And speaking of my missus,” Bungo says now, “where is she? I have something exciting to tell her. And you can hear it too, of course.”

“She’s in the study!” little Grigory proclaims, clearly proud of himself for knowing the answer.

“She said she had something to finish up and to make ourselves at home,” Mrs. Danderfluff adds.

That’s peculiar. He doesn’t remember Belladonna saying she was working on anything, certainly nothing important enough to leave four guests alone in their parlor without a drop of tea or a crumb of food.

Bungo hurries to prepare their guests something to nibble on before setting out to retrieve his wife. The study door is ajar, and he carefully pushes it open to reveal Belladonna hunched over the writing desk, a journal open in front of her. He can’t quite make out what’s written inside, although it looks like it could be a grid, perhaps a calendar. He notes that she has no quill in her hand. No, she’s not writing in this journal; she’s reading it. Poring over it, more like.

When he steps closer, his foot testing a creaky floorboard, Belladonna jumps and slaps the journal shut.

“You startled me,” she says with an unnatural laugh, shifting in her chair to look at him.

“What are you working on?” Bungo asks innocently enough.

“It’s nothing,” Belladonna replies, standing up and slipping the journal, a small leather-bound thing the like of which Bungo is all too familiar with, onto a shelf.

Bungo sighs, deciding that it must be one of her old adventure journals. He won’t be getting any details out of her in that case, although why revisiting it was so urgent that she abandoned their guests he can’t imagine.

What he finds even more unusual is that Belladonna slips past him and into the hall without so much as the slightest touch or kiss or fond glance. For more than nine years of marriage she’s consistently greeted him as if he just returned from war, whether he’s been gone two hours or two days—not that he leaves for two days very often. It was really just that one trip to Bree with Gandalf, which he’d prefer to forget. He wouldn’t, however, like to forget the way she looked at him when he returned.

And besides the lack of affection, she hasn’t even asked how his meeting with Minto went. He knows things have a habit of slipping his wife’s mind, but considering how long they’ve discussed their plans for Bagshot Row, he’d expected her to mention it.

“Don’t you want to know what happened with Minto?” he asks, hurrying after her into the parlor.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” Belladonna answers over her shoulder as they enter the room.

Something is still not right with her, but Bungo does his best not to fret over it for the moment.

Once they’re all seated—Bungo in his armchair, which even rare visitors the Danderfluffs know better than to use—he clears his throat and gives them the news: “We’re going to build more holes into The Hill.” He glances at Belladonna, whose returning smile seems to be rather a delayed reaction.

“Well, that’s the most exciting news I’ve heard in ages!” Olo declares. Bungo wishes his wife could muster up the same enthusiasm.

“What is he talking about, Papa?” Cora asks her father.

“There are going to be even more places to live right here on this very hill,” Olo explains patiently.

“Can we come live here?” Grigory asks Bungo, and his parents are quick to quell his excitement, telling him of course they won’t, and not to ask such things of people.

But Bungo has a different idea. “I would love for you to take one of the houses,” he tells them. “If Belladonna approves, of course,” he adds, looking to her again and hoping maybe this will finally spark her interest. But she merely nods.

“Oh no, we couldn’t possibly,” Olo insists. “You don’t have to offer us something like that just because Grigory couldn’t bite his tongue.”

“No, I’ve actually been considering it,” Bungo says, and he means it. “I was planning to ask once the plans were more established and the work was closer to being finished, but I suppose it can’t hurt to bring it up now. We’d give you a fair price, of course.”

The Danderfluffs are speechless. Well, at least the parents are. The children are extremely vocal in their pleas. Finally Olo turns to his wife, and they whisper a few things back and forth before he looks back at Bungo and announces, “We would be honored.”

“Excellent. I’d say this calls for wine!” Bungo declares, and as he passes Belladonna to fetch a bottle from the cellar, he searches her face. He isn’t sure if he’s searching for a sign that everything is fine or for the very source of the problem, but he finds neither. It’s not sadness or anger, at least he doesn’t think, just distance—intense contemplation of matters he’s unaware of. What could have possibly happened in the time it took him to visit Minto’s office that would cause this?

Belladonna is not herself during dinner either, saying very little aside from complimenting Olo’s chicken and accepting Mrs. Danderfluff’s request to visit the milliner’s with her next week. Even then, she’s sparing with her words. He keeps catching her staring at nothing in particular, her mind clearly somewhere else. Her brow furrows more than once during the evening, which is not an expression Bungo is used to seeing in this house unless it’s in a mirror.

“Is everything all right?” he asks her again later as they climb into bed. He’s caught her up on his agreement with Minto, and she’s approved of everything with smiles and all the expected comments, but once again her responses seem delayed, her gaze wandering.

“Perfectly fine,” she replies, turning away from him and burrowing beneath the thick quilts until only her curls are visible, stark black against the cream-colored pillow.

Bungo doesn’t believe her. He can’t. After all, it’s not often that she acts so withdrawn. But he doesn’t pry further, simply rolls over to blow out the candle and worry in the dark. What could be troubling her? Is it something he’s done? Something he hasn’t done? Something she’s done and doesn’t want him to know about? Is she ill? Did she have a falling out with her family? Is it merely the gloomy weather affecting her?

_What is it?_

He finds out soon enough.

For a week Belladonna’s mood wavers between the same quiet distraction and an obviously forced cheeriness to assure Bungo that nothing is the matter. Bungo thinks about sneaking into the study to peek into that journal she had been examining, but he did precisely that eight and a half years ago, and it had turned out horribly.

Bungo is standing at the kitchen table sifting through the post when Belladonna appears in the doorway with something to tell him.

“Bungo, I’ve missed something.”

“Hmm?” He spots a letter from Minto Bramble and begins to open it. “Missed something? What do you mean?”

“Bungo. I’ve _missed_ something,” Belladonna repeats, moving closer to him.

Bungo removes Minto’s letter and quickly scans it, seeing that excavation on Bagshot Row is set to begin in two weeks. “What have you missed? Donnamira’s birthday isn’t until next week, I thought.”

“Bungo.” Belladonna takes his hand gently and removes the letter from it, placing it on the table. He makes a noise of protest and looks at her questioningly. He’s surprised by the face he discovers staring back at him—brow knitted, lip taut. Goodness, she actually looks nervous.

“What’s going on?” he asks urgently.

Belladonna looks at him for a moment, considering and clearly uncertain, and then there is a gust of warm breath against his ear as Belladonna whispers what she’s missed. It turns out to be something Bungo would prefer to remain unspoken of, whether in a whisper or a shout. In fact, it’s the exact something he’d briefly considered her _not_ having missed, based on her behavior. His eyes widen at the mention of it.

“Belladonna,” he tells her when she pulls away from him, “I’ve asked you to please keep those matters private. I don’t like to…”

He stops, realization blooming. He thinks. He thinks some more. He hears her words echoing in his head, sees her gazing at him expectantly—an appropriate choice of words—and he understands.

His voice comes out crooked at first. “Oh,” he croaks, and then swallows. “You’ve missed… that.”

Belladonna nods slowly.

“Which means you’re…” He doesn’t know how to say the words, having believed he never would for a very long time now.

Fortunately Belladonna doesn’t make him finish: “I think. Maybe. Yes.”

They stare at each other for what feels like forever, and it gets harder and harder for Bungo to even see his wife clearly through the fog clouding his eyes. Then, without even knowing how he got there, he feels hard tile against his knees and the cool fabric of Belladonna’s dress beneath his fingers. She’s laughing the deep, damp kind of laugh that can only have been filtered through tears. And for the first time in a week, he knows that laugh is genuine.

Bungo rests his palms lightly against his wife’s middle and brings his face close enough to touch his nose to her dress. He presses a kiss to the cloth, and then another one, and then another one, his hands slipping around Belladonna’s waist to pull her gently closer, his insides practically bubbling over with unexpected sentiment.

It’s silly, really, considering they can’t even be certain this has actually happened. It could just be a false alarm, and even if it’s not, Bungo knows things can happen, hopes can be dashed. But Belladonna continues to laugh so brightly, and her warm fingers slide between his curls and against his scalp so tenderly, that he can’t really bring himself to consider the alternatives at the moment. Instead, he simply chooses to believe.

Although he must admit…

“Not the most convenient timing you’ve chosen,” he murmurs to whoever is beginning in there.

But after nearly a decade, he supposes he can’t complain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we’re back! I just couldn’t stay away from these two, plus I left Bagshot Row as a bit of a loose end in my last fic, so I figured why not do a sequel? And since there’s no specific date for when those houses were built, why not set it at precisely the time Belladonna was pregnant with Bilbo, for added shenanigans?
> 
> The titles of the chapters refer to months in the Shire calendar. The events of each chapter take place in that month, unless otherwise stated. This chapter occurs in Afteryule, the first month, which equates to our December 23 to January 21.
> 
> I’d love to hear what you think. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> P.S. I’m on [Tumblr](http://myrtlebroadbelt.tumblr.com). Come talk to me about the Bagginses.


	2. Solmath

Bungo and Belladonna Baggins had long ago accepted that they wouldn’t be having children.

They hadn’t given it much thought the first year of their marriage. It seemed a blessing that it hadn’t happened, considering they were currently stuffed into a hatbox with Belladonna’s tween sisters. During construction of Bag End, their concerns were mostly focused on missing windows and faulty door handles, although the promise of raising a family was much of the reason they built the house in the first place.

Once they’d settled comfortably into their new home and that family still hadn’t arrived, they began to suspect that maybe it never would.

Goodness knows the Shire is a fertile place, in terms of its land and its inhabitants alike. Belladonna’s mother bore twelve children, and some of her older brothers were already raising fauntlings of their own. But childless couples, while rare, certainly weren’t unheard of.

On the contrary, Belladonna and Bungo were _very_ heard of. They came from two of the Shire’s most famous families, after all, and hobbits take their tea with gossip. Some pitied them, offering sympathetic looks in the market. The worst of the bunch thought them selfish for living in such a big house just the two of them, as if this were their choice. For those who managed to remain oblivious, it was always the first question out of their mouths: “Lovely to meet you. Do you have children?”

For the first few years they would answer with “Not yet” and “Soon enough” and “Eventually.” But by the by their responses boiled down to a simple “No,” with “and we never will” implied.

It wasn’t easy, but they came to accept it, content to inhabit the roles of aunt and uncle. Yet always there remained that quiet wish in their hearts, lying dormant until something momentarily sparked it to life. Catching the other with a child in their arms usually did the trick. But once it was just the two of them again, the wish settled back down.

They had each other, and that was enough.

Still, child or no child, Bag End was rather isolated from the rest of Hobbiton. They certainly had visitors, and Holman was a constant presence, the snip-snap of his shears outside a pleasant reminder of that. And goodness knows Bungo in particular appreciated the peace and quiet that the seclusion offered them. But as the years passed, they thought more and more about what it would be like to have neighbors knocking on their door to borrow sugar, or merely to step outside and be met with more than just an empty road and the distant hum of the town beyond.

Belladonna especially seemed to yearn for more company. She went to the market often, usually concocting some frivolous errand or low-running pantry item as an excuse. She made more trips to the Great Smials and invited her sisters over for tea at least every fortnight. Other times she would simply spend the afternoon in the garden with her pipe. Tooks weren’t designed to stay cooped up all day, and goodness knows, having grown up with so many siblings, and such lively ones at that, she was accustomed to noise and activity wherever she turned.

Belladonna loved Bag End, and she loved Bungo even more, as she told him at every opportunity. He was no longer quite so concerned as he used to be that she might leave him for somewhere, or something, or—no, he couldn’t even consider it— _someone_ more exciting. But he wanted his wife to be as happy as he could possibly make her.

So on the first night of Yule, with a new year on the horizon, as they sat drinking mulled wine and warming their toes by the fire, Bungo brought up the idea of finally following through on those plans for Bagshot Row.

“We’ll have neighbors, people we’ll see every day and talk to. And we’ll be landlords, finally making money off our own land. I’d say it’s about time.”

“What about your advertising?” Belladonna pointed out. “You make money there.”

Bungo waved his hand. “That’s hardly more than a few extra potatoes each week. This is serious.”

“Are you sure you want to build more houses?” Belladonna asked skeptically. “The last time you nearly lost your head over it, and that was just _one_ house.”

Bungo shrugged. “It was an adventure.”

Belladonna raised an eyebrow at that. “You hate adventures.”

“One every nine years or so is tolerable,” Bungo concluded, and Belladonna tossed a pillow at him. “Careful, I’ll spill,” he told her, holding his mug away protectively but laughing nonetheless. “Anyway, I think this time around things will be much simpler. We actually know what we’ll find under the dirt.”

“What’s that?”

“More dirt,” he snorted. “We put it there, remember? I don’t think we have to worry about tree roots or ledges this time. And we can choose who lives there, to be sure they won’t climb through our windows while we sleep and steal our silverware.”

“Oh yes, of course, no silverware burglars need apply.” She paused, smiling to herself. “Yes, all right. Let’s do it.”

They toasted to that, mugs clinking in the quiet evening.

“Who shall we have build it?” Belladonna wondered.

Bungo looked around the parlor, considering. His eyes lingered on the framed floorplan hanging on the wall by the window, a souvenir from construction. “Minto Bramble,” he decided.

Belladonna scoffed. “Good luck with that.”

Luck—and flattery, and money—turned out to be on Bungo’s side. However, his hopeful attitude about the situation unfortunately didn’t last longer than the trip home from Minto’s office. Belladonna’s obvious fretting had _him_ fretting for an entire week. And when he discovered the reason, he was of course overjoyed, but this baby in his wife’s belly really did have dreadful timing.

* * *

“I didn’t want to tell you until I could be more certain. After so long, it wouldn’t do to get your hopes up,” Belladonna explains when Bungo is done showering her with kisses in the middle of their kitchen and they’ve sat down at the table. “But I knew you were worried about me, and I was worried about you being worried about me. And you’re right, this isn’t the best time. I wish I’d considered the possibility before you walked out the door to meet with Minto, but I was rather resigned to the fact that this would never happen. I still don’t quite believe it.”

Bungo covers his wife’s hand with his own. “We’re just getting a little more company than we expected. But it’s company we’ve wanted for a very long time.”

Belladonna nods, smiling warmly. Her eyes are watery, so he hands her his handkerchief. “I don’t feel ill like they say you will,” she says when she’s done dabbing. “I hope that isn’t a bad sign.”

She doesn’t have to worry about that much longer. Two weeks later all doubts are washed away as Belladonna staggers out of the bathroom early in the morning looking pale.  Bungo sits up in bed, where he was just moments ago woken by some very unpleasant sounds. He urges his wife to lie down again.

“I’d say we can be certain now,” she remarks drily, laying her head on the pillow and shutting her eyes.

Bungo smoothes the curls away from her sweat-sheened forehead. “I’ll get you some tea,” he tells her, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and scurrying toward the wardrobe to retrieve his dressing gown. “You stay right there and rest.”

“Get me a pickle,” Belladonna requests as he’s opening the bedroom door.

He pauses and looks back at her, not certain he heard correctly. “Pardon?”

“A pickle,” she repeats, pulling the quilt up to her chin with no further explanation.

Bungo blinks a few times before venturing to the pantry.

He does feel rather absurd bringing his wife a plated pickle for breakfast, but far be it from him to deprive her. She scrambles to sit up when he hands it to her, and by the time he makes it around to his side of the bed and settles back under the covers with his own tea, she’s eaten the entire thing. He gapes at her.

“I was craving it,” she says with a shrug and looks forlornly at the empty dish, then back up at him with imploring eyes. “Do you think you could bring me another one?”

Bungo raises his eyebrows. “Another one? Why don’t you let me make you a proper breakfast? Eggs? Bacon? Porridge? Potatoes?”

Belladonna will have nothing if it’s not a pickle, although she doesn’t rule out any of the other options for later. Bungo plans ahead and brings her two this time, and sure enough she polishes them both off before he can even finish his first sip of tea. Then she sets her dish on the bedside table, scoots further under the linens, and falls back to sleep.

 _Well_ , he thinks, _this will be an interesting nine months_.

* * *

Belladonna wakes up in time for second breakfast and accepts everything Bungo offered her earlier, and then some. A hobbit with a large appetite is hardly a novelty, but for Belladonna, who’s always been on the lean side, a feast this heaping is unusual.

“How are you feeling?” Bungo asks his wife as they eat, stacks of dirty pans and crumb-laden plates surrounding them in the kitchen.

Belladonna, who is still wearing her nightgown and sleep-mussed hair, has just spooned a large glob of raspberry jam onto a remnant of scone that is almost too meager to support it. “Much better,” she says through a full mouth.

“The workers are arriving this morning to begin the excavation,” Bungo informs her, and then, as if they were just waiting for their cue, the bell rings.

Bungo answers the door to Minto Bramble and five hardy-looking hobbit lads.

Minto bows shortly, and Bungo notices a few rolled-up parchments tucked under his arm. “Good morning, Mr. Baggins. Allow me to introduce the workers who will be carrying out the excavation today.”

Bungo nods to each hobbit as Minto says his name, struggling to sear each one to his memory. Hobbit names are easier than dwarf ones, but with so many relatives stored in there already, Bungo doubts his ability to remember.

“A pleasure to meet you all,” he tells them. “Thank you for your help. I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job.”

“No doubt about it,” Minto agrees proudly. “I handpick my workers very carefully. Now, Mr. Baggins, I would like to go over the plans with you once more before we get started.”

“Certainly,” Bungo says, instinctively stepping aside to let them in before remembering that his wife is currently sitting undressed at the kitchen table messily eating everything in sight. He panics and begins closing the door, not taking into account that Minto has already crossed the threshold. The door comes dangerously close to smacking the architect in the face before Bungo realizes what he’s doing.

“Mr. Baggins,” Minto huffs, offended. “If this is some kind of retaliation for our previous meeting, I must say I’m not amused. I thought my multiple apologies were sufficient to prevent such childishness.”

“Oh no, not at all, Minto,” Bungo hurries to assure him, scrambling for an explanation. “I’m very sorry to have given you the wrong impression. You see, this door can be a bit temperamental. Closes on its own if you don’t hold onto it. I believe I told you about it, didn’t I?”

“I thought you said the issue was with the wardrobe door,” Minto says suspiciously.

“Did I? Silly me. Well, I meant the front door. We really must get that fixed. Well, please do come in.” Minto and the workers shuffle into the entrance hall, and all at once Bungo is wobbling beneath a pile of cloaks.

He rushes to hang them all up and leads them into the parlor. “Please, have a seat,” he tells them, craning his neck to see into the kitchen and breathing a sigh of relief to find it empty. “I’ll get you some tea,” he adds, clenching his fists when he notices Minto sitting in his armchair.

As he puts the kettle on he begins to hear chatter in the next room, and one of the voices is distinctly feminine. He closes his eyes, hoping beyond hope that his wife is now combed and dressed.

He peeks into the parlor to discover neither of his hopes fulfilled, and to top it all off she has yet another pickle in her hand, munching on it between sentences as Minto and his workers observe her with no small degree of astonishment.

So much for that respectability he promised.

“Belladonna,” he chirps from the doorway. She smiles at him from where she stands next to the fireplace, jaw working on the last bit of pickle. The crunch cuts through the quiet sharper than a knife. “Could you help me in the kitchen?” he requests, and she strolls past their visitors and into the kitchen as if nothing is the matter.

He’d rather not get into an argument when there are six already scandalized guests sitting in the next room, but he would like to prevent this from happening again, so as Belladonna is setting the teacups on a tray, Bungo leans in and whispers, “In the future, it would probably do to have on something more than a nightgown when greeting visitors.”

“I’m not…” Belladonna objects, before glancing down at herself and gasping. She clasps the neck of her nightgown self-consciously. “I’m so sorry, dear. I didn’t even realize.”

“You didn’t?”

“Of course I didn’t!” she cries. Bungo winces at that, so she forces her voice back down to a whisper. “For goodness’ sake, I may be a Took, but I do have _some_ propriety. It’s this condition I’m in. It’s doing all sorts of unusual things to me.”

“Are you feeling ill again?” Bungo asks, concerned.

“No, no, that’s passed. I’m just a bit… fuzzy. Perhaps I should go lie down again. I’m certainly dressed for it.” She very nearly exits back through the parlor, but Bungo hissing her name makes her realize what a mistake that is, and she quickly redirects herself through the dining room.

Bungo takes a moment to compose himself before lifting the tea tray and entering the parlor. Minto and his workers are sitting in uncomfortable silence. Minto raises a disapproving eyebrow when he spots Bungo, who responds with a weak smile as he sets the tray down.

He briefly considers explaining Belladonna’s condition, but he decides he’s given quite enough frantic excuses this morning, and anyway, they don’t intend to tell anyone until their families have been informed, and they’ve been rather procrastinating there.

The hobbits sip their tea quietly as Minto spreads his plans on the footstool accompanying Bungo’s armchair. This time Bungo refrains from making changes, with his mouth or his pen. The fact that these houses are for people other than himself makes it much easier to simply accept Minto’s expertise and move on.

“We’re lucky this winter has been so mild,” Minto explains as they stand and he rolls up the parchment. “Otherwise the dirt might be too hard to dig through. As it is, however, it will no doubt take us longer than it would in the warmer months, and as I’ve said before, I’m very busy. So please do be patient with us, Mr. Baggins.”

“Yes, of course,” Bungo replies. “Beautiful things aren’t built in a day.” They take several months of food cravings and absentmindedness.

They make their way into the entrance hall. “Our tools are in the cart, so we’ll just get started,” Minto tells him.

“Yes, of course. And please, feel free to join us at mealtimes,” Bungo offers, scrambling to match each cloak to its proper owner. “We have plenty to share.”

“We’ll be dining at the Green Dragon,” Minto replies, and Bungo can’t help but think he came to that decision _after_ seeing Belladonna traipsing around in her nightgown. He supposes it’s for the best.

“Just one more question,” he thinks to ask before they leave. “The dirt…”

“Not to worry,” Minto responds intuitively. “We’ll cart it away when we’re done for the day. I have an arrangement with some local farmers.”

An arrangement? No wonder he can afford an emerald and gold clasp on his cloak. “That’s good to hear,” Bungo says with a smile, but can’t help thinking that maybe he should receive a percentage of those farmers’ payment.

Minto is the last one out of the house, and he gives the door one final, narrow-eyed glance as he goes. Bungo thinks quickly and gives it a slight nudge forward before Minto is all the way over the threshold, shrugging as if it was out of his control.

When they’re all out of sight, Bungo puts his face in his hands and groans. All this trouble and they haven’t even begun excavation yet. And Belladonna’s belly hasn’t even begun to swell. He shudders to think what will happen in the coming months.

Before cleaning up the kitchen, he pays a visit to the bedroom to check on Belladonna, only to find her fast asleep on top of the quilt with a half-eaten pickle held loosely in her hand and staining her nightgown. It’s so ridiculous he doesn’t even have it in his heart to be irritated, and he sets about quietly removing the pickle and covering Belladonna with a wool blanket from the chair in the corner. He throws another log into the fireplace before he leaves.

* * *

Belladonna sleeps through elevenses but emerges from the bedroom shortly before luncheon. She’s changed out of her nightgown and into a casual linen frock, but her hair is still a bird’s nest. “I’m hungry,” she says through a gaping yawn.

Bungo looks up from the letters he’s answering at the kitchen table. “Indeed? I thought you’d eaten enough pickles to last you until supper,” he remarks wryly.

“Oh, hush,” she tells him, stretching.

Bungo taps his papers into a neat stack and replaces his quill in the ink jar. “Well, what would you like?”

Belladonna bites her lip thoughtfully, as if this is the most important question she’s ever been asked. “I’d love a nice fried fish with lemon.”  

Of all the things she could have chosen, it has to be the one thing they don’t have. He tells her as much.

“Well, then let’s go get some,” Belladonna replies, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. As if there isn’t a team of hobbits digging into the side of their hill at that very moment, tossing dirt every which way. He already made a special trip to the market to stock up on essentials so they wouldn’t need to leave Bag End while the excavation was in progress. Unfortunately he didn’t anticipate his pregnant wife craving fish and lemon in the middle of the afternoon.

“I don’t want to disturb Minto’s workers,” Bungo tells her. “We may not even be able to get past them, depending on how far they’ve gotten.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Belladonna says. “We shouldn’t be prisoners just because a few workers need to throw some dirt in the road.” She’s already making her way through the parlor and towards the entrance hall. “If we need to, we can go the long way round and cut through a few gardens. No one will mind.”

Oh, absolutely not.

“Belladonna, wait a moment!” He scrambles to his feet and rushes after her. “Are you sure you won’t eat anything else? Cold chicken? Mince-pie?”

Belladonna wrinkles her nose. “I want fish.”

Bungo sighs. “Very well. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he says, reaching for his cloak on the wall.

“I’ll go with you,” says Belladonna, reaching for her own. He stops her.

“No, you stay here and rest.” He grabs a basket from the bench by the door. “They already saw you in your nightgown. I’d rather they not see you leaping over mounds of dirt on a quest for fresh fish.”

“If you don’t want me to go, you shouldn’t make it sound so fun,” Belladonna says teasingly, but agrees to stay behind, kissing her husband on the nose in gratitude.

Bungo steps onto the porch and considers his options. The only direct route south towards the market is on the road leading to the bottom of the Hill, where Minto and his men just so happen to be in the process of building his neighbors’ houses. Otherwise, he’ll have to go behind Bag End, and the only quick way to the market if he does that is by taking Belladonna’s suggestion and cutting through gardens. That’s absolutely not an option, so he straightens his cloak, takes a deep breath, and begins the trek downhill.

As he reaches the foot of The Hill, he sees that three workers are digging into the ground while the other two consolidate the dirt pile. Bungo breathes a sigh of relief to see that it doesn’t cover the road. As he gets closer none of them seem to notice his presence, and he wonders if he’ll be able to sneak by unnoticed.

That possibility is dashed as soon as Minto, who is overseeing the work with a pipe in his mouth, looks up and meets his eye. Bungo flinches but waves instinctively. “Good afternoon!” he calls.

He unfortunately doesn’t consider the fact that none of the workers are yet aware of his presence, and that perhaps his voice can be abnormally loud when he’s anxious.

All five workers jump in surprise, and one of them inadvertently jams the back of his shovel into his partner’s ribs. The one who received the blow doubles over where he stands, wincing.

“Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry,” Bungo says, rushing forward.

The hobbit who wielded the offending shovel is apologizing as well, as the victim straightens up and rubs the point of impact. “I’m all right,” he assures them, albeit with a weak voice and gritted teeth.

Minto removes his pipe with a sigh. “What can we do for you, Mr. Baggins?”

Bungo gulps. “I was just on my way to market. Dreadfully sorry to have given you such a fright.”

Once it’s been established that the worker is uninjured and able to continue, Minto gestures for the hobbits to get back to work, and Bungo hurries away with a few more muttered apologies so as not to be showered with dirt.

Oh dear, nothing seems to be going right today.

He’s already dreading the return trip. If Belladonna weren’t waiting for her precious fried fish with lemon, he might just hide out in the market until he knew the team had quit for the day. But alas, he has to face them again.

He’s soon retracing his steps with a basket full of two freshly wrapped fish, a lemon, and a precautionary jar of pickles. He takes a deep breath as he nears The Hill, hoping for a less disastrous encounter this time.

Facing this new direction, all of the workers and Minto are turned away from him. At first, he thinks this must be a good thing, since he can slip past without raising his voice and causing any worse injury.

This time, however, he’s the one who’s in for a nasty surprise.

As Bungo approaches, one of the hobbits tosses the dirt a bit too forcefully over his shoulder. It misses the pile completely and instead hits Bungo square in the face. He gives an involuntary shout, and suddenly there are six pairs of eyes staring at him while he blinks dirt out of his own.

This time it’s the hobbit who received the previous jab—and who is coincidentally the one with the haphazard shoveling habits—who is apologizing. Bungo waves it off, brushing his fingers through grainy hair. He's ironically thankful that the dirt hides the redness of his face.

Minto’s patience seems to be hanging by a thread. “Perhaps it’s best if you stay home while we’re out here, Mr. Baggins,” he suggests. “For everyone’s safety, including your own. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Bungo rushes to reply, spitting out traces of dirt as he does so. “You’re quite right, Minto. It won’t happen again. So sorry to have disturbed you.”

And with that he dashes back up to Bag End as quickly as his feet will allow. Once he’s inside, he sets the basket down in the entrance hall and rushes to the bathroom to rinse his hair and scrub his face, determined not to give Belladonna the chance to ask any questions, or, more likely, laugh at him.

When he’s removed all traces of dirt from his person, including behind his ears, which he nearly forgot, he fries the fish over the kitchen hearth, channeling his tension into squeezing the lemon over the top.

Belladonna hums happily through a full mouth as they eat. Halfway through, she swallows and seems to get an idea: “Do you know what would go wonderfully with this?”

“Anything that’s already in the pantry,” Bungo answers shortly.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titles of the chapters refer to months in the Shire calendar. The events of each chapter take place in that month, unless otherwise stated. This chapter (mostly) occurs in Solmath, the second month, which equates to our January 22 to February 20.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Rethe

The Bagginses are coming.

Not the Bagginses of Bag End. They’re the ones currently rushing to tidy up the parlor. At least, Bungo is. Belladonna is mostly rolling her eyes at him from where she sits curled up in his armchair. It’s particularly annoying considering she was the one who made the mess in the first place.

“I tolerate it every other day, Belladonna. Is it so much to ask that we have some order for my parents?”

“Really, dear, it’s not that bad,” she insists, polishing off a plate of cheese, her latest craving. “Just a few things out of place here and there can hardly upset them.”

“You have met my father, have you not?” Bungo asks incredulously, sweeping a stack of unanswered letters off the table and into his designated clutter basket.

“Does he know that we actually live in this house? That it’s not a museum?”

“He thinks museums are messy. He wrote Mathom-house about it once.”

“Well, that’s… extreme,” Belladonna admits. She stands to put her plate in the kitchen, pausing along the way to remove a pile of sewing from the loveseat.

“Thank you,” Bungo sighs, moving a few books back to their proper shelves.

He’s in the middle of wiping dust off every surface he can reach when the bell rings.

Right on time. No surprise there.

He quickly hides the dust rag and turns to Belladonna, who’s stoking the fire. “Are you ready?” he asks.

“From the look on your face, you’d think we were walking into certain death,” Belladonna laughs, looping her arm through his and joining him in the entrance hall.

“Are we not?” Bungo says, and, after a deep breath and a speedy clothing adjustment, opens the door.

Mungo Baggins is similar to his eldest son in appearance, with warm chestnut curls and a round nose, but his countenance is less nervous and more dour. That, and he’s a better dresser. What looks polished and neat on Bungo looks positively pristine on his father. All his waistcoats are double-breasted, and his cravat is always tied in an even bow.

“Good afternoon,” Mungo greets with the barest minimum of a smile. “Those petunias are wilting.”

Bungo follows his father’s gaze to the pots on the porch. “Thank you for noticing,” he says, hiding a painfully tight fist behind his back. “I’ll tell Holman.”

Mungo hums and hands Bungo his hat as he steps inside, followed closely by his wife Laura. You would be forgiven for not noticing her there. One might call her bland. In fact, many have. Her hair doesn’t warrant a more descriptive shade than brown. She dresses her plump figure in solid colors and rarely speaks unless addressed directly.

Laura gives her son a wordless kiss on the cheek as she crosses the threshold and repeats the gesture for Belladonna. She’s always liked her very much, although it’s best that her husband doesn’t hear about it.

Mungo enters the parlor and makes a beeline for the mantle, craning his neck to examine it. It’s the only surface in the room that didn’t get dusted, Bungo recognizes. Goodness gracious, how does he always know?

Laura, meanwhile, is presenting a pie to Belladonna.

“Oh, how lovely,” Belladonna says with delight, accepting the dish and bringing it to her nose. Her smile drops almost immediately, and she lowers the pie just as quickly. “Is this apple?” she asks, clamping her mouth shut as soon as the words are out, lest something more tangible escape.

“Yes,” Laura replies in her quiet voice, oblivious to what she’s caused.

“Wonderful,” Belladonna forces out, turning to Bungo and pushing the product into his hands as politely as possible. “If you’ll please excuse me for a moment,” she says, scurrying into the hall and towards the bathroom.

“Is she all right?” Laura asks with concern.

“Oh, certainly,” Bungo assures her, racking his brain for a way to explain the cause of his wife’s sudden disgust at the smell of apples. That’s precisely what the Bagginses are here to discover, of course, but he wasn’t exactly planning to come out with it this way.

He opts for uncomfortable silence instead, before noticing his father’s raised eyebrow. “Shall we go into the dining room?” he suggests, leading his parents through the kitchen and placing the pie on the table along the way. “We’ll have it later,” he assures his mother, and looks forward to polishing it off this evening while Belladonna is out of smelling range. “I’ve put out quite the spread, you’ll see.”

Indeed, he skipped luncheon to prepare it all. (Nothing went to waste, as Belladonna ate enough for the both of them.) He’s brought out the best porcelain, made several types of sandwiches, constructed a veritable mountain of scones with clotted cream and a wide selection of jams, and garnished it all with berries fresh from the market. He slapped Belladonna’s roaming fingers away from the strawberries more than once before their guests arrived, but he smiles privately now to discover a dent.

Once his parents are seated, Bungo sets about pouring the tea, careful not to put too much milk in his father’s cup. Mungo is very particular about it. Mungo is very particular about most things.

“Are you expecting more company?” the elder Baggins asks, observing the two extra place settings.

“Yes,” Bungo confirms as he passes the tea to his father.

“Oh?” Mungo takes his first refined sip. Bungo holds his breath for his father’s reaction—to both the tea and the promise of company. He wrinkles his nose ever so slightly at the tea but thankfully doesn’t mention it. That’s good enough for Bungo, who estimates he’s made a satisfactory cup for his father no more than three times in his life.

Regarding the company: “May I ask who will be joining us?”

Bungo’s hand trembles on the teapot as he prepares his mother’s cup. “The Tooks,” he responds as coolly as possible, avoiding eye contact.

Mungo coughs. “Only two extra place settings? Certainly you should have emptied all your cabinets.”

“It’s just Belladonna’s parents,” Bungo corrects.

“Why didn’t you tell us they would be coming?”

“Because I knew you wouldn’t accept the invitation,” Bungo says through gritted teeth, pulling out his chair to sit at the head of the table.

“Well, that would be an accurate assumption,” Mungo agrees. “I hardly wish to spend my perfectly good afternoon with that…”

He trails off when Belladonna enters the room, thankfully oblivious to the topic of conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s defended her family against Mungo’s criticism. She can be fierce on her best day. What she’d be like in her current condition Bungo flinches to imagine.

“Terribly sorry about that,” Belladonna says cheerily now, although Bungo’s chest tightens upon noticing the paleness of her face. He’s still not used to seeing his wife ill so often. “What have I missed?” she asks, sitting adjacent to Bungo.

“I was just telling my father about our other guests.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure they’ll be here any moment,” Belladonna elaborates, already helping herself to the table’s offerings. “They may not be as punctual as you two, but they do have farther to travel, after all.”

“May I ask what the occasion is?” Mungo asks stiffly.

Belladonna and Bungo blurt their answers at the same time.

“We have something to tell you,” says Belladonna.

“There’s some news we wish to share,” says Bungo.

“Is it about those three gaping holes in the side of The Hill?” Mungo wonders.

Oh, dear. Had he really neglected to write his father about the new houses? He wonders how Mungo refrained from mentioning it for this long.

“Yes,” Bungo not-quite-lies. “And something else as well.”

“Must we all hear this news at the same time?”

“Well, seeing as it applies rather directly to both you and the Tooks, we thought it would be best if you were all together,” Bungo explains.

Mungo narrows his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak but is rudely interrupted by the lively jingle of the doorbell.

Belladonna pushes her chair back. “I told you they wouldn’t be long.”

Bungo excuses himself and follows his wife to the door, suddenly wishing he was anywhere else.

Everything about the Tooks’ entrance to Bag End contradicts the Bagginses’. Old Took barges into the entrance hall as soon as the door clicks open, scooping his daughter up into a devastating hug and expelling a hearty laugh made of mirth and pipe-weed.

“My dear Bella!” he exclaims, using his pet name for her. (He addresses all his daughters by their first two syllables, and especially enjoys calling for all three of them at once, turning it into one rapid melding of their names—“Belladonnamira!” He routinely changes the order so that none of their names are left dangling on the end more often than the others. It can be particularly confusing when he calls for two and only one comes running, thinking he was using her full name.)

Gerontius Took takes up a startling amount of space for a hobbit, with both his body and his personality. He has a barrel of a belly, a bulbous nose, and enormous feet. He’s also hairier than most hobbits west of Buckland, his wiry grey curls transitioning into wispy mutton chops. His fabrics are just as luxurious as Mungo’s, if not more so, but he wears them as far from impeccably as possible. His waistcoats slouch, his jackets have wrinkles, and his cravats are tied in haphazard knots. Color-matching is not a priority.

Bungo soon finds himself enfolded in his father-in-law’s arms before he can even take a preliminary breath. The pat Old Took plants on his back reverberates through his ribcage. “Good to see you, sir,” he mumbles into a velvet-clad shoulder.

His wife Adamanta, who embraces the pair of them with a much more comfortable amount of zeal, possesses the more delicate features of her daughters. Her hair is dark and silver-streaked, her figure composed of soft curves, her dresses simple yet stylish. She’s always represented to Bungo what Belladonna might look like when she’s older, a glittering diamond on the surface, with a trove of rarer gems lying hidden underneath.

They enter the dining room, where the Bagginses have stood up from the table to greet the new arrivals. Upon glimpsing them, Old Took outstretches his arms with a wild grin. “It’s a family reunion!”

He approaches Laura first, skipping the hug and instead kissing the lady’s hand with a flourish. There’s no missing her blush.

It’s then the grey-haired hobbit turns to Mungo. They stare each other down for a moment, Mungo no doubt considering fleeing the premises if Old Took attempts to hug him. At last he merely extends his hand. Mungo takes it, working hard not let his expression betray his relief. That relief comes too soon, however, because Old Took uses his grip on Mungo’s hand to pull him into his chest, and that finely tuned stoicism devolves into visible distress. Bungo believes he hears his father squeak.

Mungo remains wide-eyed in Old Took’s suffocating grip until the fellow finally releases him with a devilish laugh. Mungo wobbles for a moment, huffing an irritated breath and hurrying to straighten both his jacket and his composure. “Gerontius,” he forces with a stiff nod.

“It’s been far too long, Baggins. If I didn’t know any better, I would say you were avoiding me.”

He would say it, and he should say it, because it’s true. The two hobbits have only interacted a handful of times in the near-decade since their children married. Mungo tries his best to evade gatherings he knows Old Took will be attending, but he has a social standing to maintain, so it’s often inescapable. That doesn’t mean Old Took himself is inescapable, however. He’s become expert at politely fleeing whenever the other hobbit draws near.

Mungo pointedly ignores Old Took’s implication. “You look well,” he remarks, eyeing a crumpled lapel in such a way as to suggest he thinks the opposite. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Took,” he adds, shifting his attention to the lady, who has been witnessing the proceedings with an amused smirk matching her daughter’s.

“Splendid to have a bigger audience,” Old Took declares, settling into a chair with the rest of the group following suit. Bungo prepares two more cups of tea. “We have some magnificent news to share.”

Bungo glances questioningly at Belladonna, who only shrugs.

“Actually, so have we,” Bungo responds, handing him his cup. “Perhaps you should go first.” He’s nervous to share their news, as he still has to remind himself every day that it’s a reality. He’s also understandably worried about the effect this development will have on their fathers’ already tumultuous relationship. He’s perfectly happy to stall.

Old Took has already made himself a plate, and he speaks through a full mouth, causing Mungo very obvious agony. It’s the content of his scone-filtered statement, however, which disturbs Bungo: “There’s going to be a new member of the family!”

Bungo chokes on his tea. “I beg your pardon?”

Belladonna looks at her husband out of the corner of her eye, giving him a barely perceptible headshake to say that no, she didn’t tell them, and no, she has no idea how they found out.

“Molly is with child,” Adamanta explains.

Bungo rummages through his mental repository of relatives’ names. It’s a rather difficult task with his heart still pounding in his head from shock. At last his mind supplies that Molly is the wife of Belladonna’s older brother Hildibrand. Or is it Hildigrim? He so desperately wishes they’d given their children more unique names, although he supposes he has no place to complain with a brother named Bingo.

There is silence. Mungo and Laura say nothing, perhaps politely deferring to Belladonna for the first reaction. But she merely sits speechless, her third egg sandwich of the afternoon resting uneaten between her fingers.

Just as Bungo is about to utter some long-winded version of “Er, well, you see, that’s interesting because,” Belladonna speaks up.

“What a coincidence,” she says. “So am I.” And with that she promptly stuffs the entire sandwich into her mouth.

Yes, best to just be out with it. Or rather, in with it, in the case of the sandwich.

The silence returns, and Belladonna chews through it.

Surprisingly, it is Laura who speaks first. “You’re with child?” she asks shyly, as one would when addressing an animal they don’t wish to frighten away.

Belladonna swallows and nods.

That’s all the confirmation Laura needs to round the table and wrap her arms around her daughter-in-law, pressing kisses into her hair and muttering something about what a blessed day this is, how no one deserves it more, what a beautiful child it will be.

Belladonna’s astonishment quickly morphs into delighted laughter, and it doesn’t take long for the Tooks to join in, their chairs almost toppling over in their rush to donate their own arms to the cause.

“I’m so happy for you, my darling,” Adamanta whispers against her daughter’s cheek.

“Two grandchildren on the way!” Old Took exclaims, sounding awfully amazed at the idea for a hobbit whose family offers a high probability for such a phenomenon.

Bungo, whose face is in danger of cracking in two from how much he’s grinning, turns to his father and nearly falls out of his chair to discover the same expression reflected back at him. Mungo peels his gaze away from the scene before him to meet Bungo’s eye. His smile slackens, as if he’s ashamed to have been caught, but it’s still there. “Congratulations, my boy,” he says, reaching over to place a hand on his son’s shoulder.

Bungo welcomes it with a pat. “Thank you, Father.”

If only he could have sealed the dining room with a cork at that moment, keeping the joy fresh and fruity inside of it like his best wine. Instead, it escapes almost as quickly as it arrived. He supposes it was far too optimistic to expect Tooks and Bagginses to exist in the same room and remain agreeable towards one another, even over something as merry as the promise of a shared grandchild.

Belladonna emerges from her cocoon of limbs, and everyone dabs their eyes with handkerchiefs, Old Took fearsomely blowing his nose for good measure. It’s then that the questions begin. And in Bungo’s experience, when questions begin, conflict is not far behind.

“How long have you known?” Adamanta wonders.

“Almost two months now,” Belladonna admits.

“Two months?” Mungo marvels, turning to Bungo, who can already smell the mood turning sour. “Why did you not tell us sooner?”

“We wanted to be certain of it first,” Bungo explains. “After so long, we’d hardly wish to share false hope.”

“Yet you wasted no time starting whatever construction requires that eyesore down The Hill,” Mungo objects.

“We made arrangements for Bagshot Row before we knew of this,” Bungo sighs, beginning to wonder why they shared the news at all.

Mungo ignores this explanation and continues. “I hope you comprehend the responsibilities you are about to face. Being a landlord takes more work than you might think, and you must be organized. You’ve been living off our money for some time, and now with a child on the way—”

“ _Your_ money?” Old Took snorts. “That’s a laugh.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mungo asks.

“I believe it’s Belladonna’s allowance that pays for most things around here. It certainly paid for this house to exist.”

“We hardly need a reminder of your wealth, Gerontius. We’re all well aware,” Mungo says sardonically.

“Indeed. You were very aware of it when our children decided to marry. I believe that was most of the reason the union occurred in the first place, was it not?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t your reputation.”

“Listen here, Baggins!” Old Took roars, leaping from his chair with astonishing agility for a hobbit of his size.

“Gerontius, let’s not do this now,” Adamanta pleads with her husband. “We’ve just received such wonderful news. Can’t we try to focus on that?”

“I would very much like to, my love, but this toffee-nosed snoot won’t let me.”

“I beg your pardon?” the toffee-nosed snoot asks with an incredulous laugh.

Old Took turns to him with a pointed finger. “Let’s make something clear. I don’t ask for your approval, but I will have your respect.”

“I do believe that requires you to be respectable,” Mungo retorts.

Old Took very nearly lunges across the table at that, but he’s restrained from either side by his wife and daughter. He retreats into his chair, fierce eyes still clamped on his adversary. Bungo stands and quietly urges his wife not to strain herself. She avoids his gaze but sits down nonetheless.

“Could we please attempt to be civil?” Adamanta requests. “For the children’s sakes.”

There is another prickly silence. The tea has gone cold and the food sits half-eaten and untouched at the center of it all. Bungo tries to recall whose idea it was to deliver this news to both families at once. It may have been his. (It was.)

Once again, the silence is unexpectedly broken by Laura. “Have you been to see the doctor, dear?” she asks Belladonna.

Belladonna looks as if she’s just emerged from a very uncomfortable dream. “The doctor? Oh. No, we haven’t.”

“Oh, you best get to see one soon,” Laura advises. She turns to Mungo. “Dear, shall we have them see Reginard?”

“Absolutely. Your mother’s cousin, Dr. Reginard Grubb,” he tells Bungo. “Excellent fellow. Fine physician. I’ll make an appointment for you.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Old Took warns.

“Oh, what is it now?” Mungo sighs. “Surely you’re not so wild as to object to doctors.”

“This child may not be named Took, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t one. All our children were birthed by Mrs. Tigerlily Brownlock, a first-rate midwife with decades of experience.”

“And shaky hands and blurred vision, no doubt, if she’s been at it that long.”

“She’ll be delivering Molly’s child. She’s already paid a visit to check up on her.”

“Then I say good luck to her. But our grandchild will be delivered by Dr. Grubb. End of discussion.”

“I will not sit idly by while you attempt to box us out of this conversation.”

“Someone has to have some sense about the situation.”

“And who’s to say that we don’t?”

“Only everyone in their right mind.”

It just gets worse from there, with the two of them hurling insults at each other like an angry game of hot potato. Bungo feels helpless at the head of the table, detached from the situation as if he’s watching a puppet show on Midsummer’s Eve. His head pivots back and forth and back and forth and back again. The gentlemen’s respective wives are attempting to calm them down, to no avail. He wonders how long they can last like this.

And then it happens.

“Enough!”

Mungo cuts short whatever tirade about Old Took’s wardrobe choices he’s currently spewing and turns towards the source of the outburst. They all do.

“This is our child. Bungo’s and mine,” Belladonna snarls, and she looks so ferocious Bungo thinks she might stretch the ceilings higher than Gandalf the Grey himself. “As such, the decisions will be ours to make,” she continues. “All of them. We did not share this news with you to have you order us around like tweens. Now I want all of you out of this house. You’ve ruined a beautiful moment, and I’ll not tolerate any more of it.”

“Bella,” Old Took attempts.

“Out!” Belladonna repeats.

And so they all push back their chairs and file out of the dining room in silence. All except for Bungo, who stays behind to observe his fuming wife with concern.

“Belladonna,” he begins, reaching for her arm.

“I need to be alone,” she says, shrugging away from him and heading to the bedroom.

He didn’t realize the dividing line between the two families ran through them as well.

Bungo sighs and follows their guests to the door to see them off.

Old Took strides out of the house without a single glance behind him. Adamanta looks at Bungo apologetically as she follows her husband. His mother gives him a parting kiss on the cheek, and his father places another hand on his shoulder, all the gentleness from earlier having vanished.

“I’ll not be in the same room as that appalling excuse for a hobbit ever again,” he hisses before snatching his hat from Bungo’s hand and slipping outside.

Just as Bungo is about to retreat into the kitchen to tuck into that apple pie, he spots Minto Bramble scurrying up the front steps, politely greeting his departing family members along the way. He has rolls of parchment in his hands.

No. Not now.

Minto meets his eye and opens his mouth to speak.

This won’t do.

“It’s not a good time, Minto,” Bungo calls, very intentionally closing the door, no faulty hinges to blame.

He really isn’t doing a very good job with that respectability he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titles of the chapters refer to months in the Shire calendar. The events of each chapter take place in that month, unless otherwise stated. This chapter occurs in Rethe, the third month, which equates to our February 21 to March 22. Interestingly, according to [Tolkien Gateway](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Rethe), it’s a modernization of the Old English name for March, which translates to “rough-month.” I’d say that’s appropriate.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Astron

A month after the most vicious afternoon tea the Shire has ever seen, Dr. Reginard Grubb arrives at the door of Bag End covered head to toe in mud.

Following a brief cooling-off period, Bungo and Belladonna had discussed the question of which doctor to use, and they had settled on Grubb for his proximity to The Hill. It was surprisingly easy for Bungo to direct Belladonna to such a decision. The plate of pickles and cheese he presented her with before they began talking may have had something to do with it.

“Goodness, what’s happened?” Bungo gasps at the sight of Grubb, hesitating before allowing the doctor inside. He’s none too keen on mud trod into his carpets, but he has a feeling the doctor’s condition is at least indirectly his fault.

Grubb steps carefully over the threshold, pushing a muddy curl out of one eye. “It’s rather busy down there,” he explains, referring of course to the construction of Bagshot Row, which has now moved beyond the point of excavation, with the houses’ wooden skeletons finally forming. “Lots of tools lying around and such.”

“Oh, no,” says Bungo, wincing. Suddenly his own shower of dirt doesn’t seem so bad.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” returns Grubb feebly. “Stumbled over a stray hammer and found myself face down in the lane. The ground still hasn’t quite recovered from that rain we had yesterday, hence my current state.”

“I’m so sorry, Reginard. We certainly didn’t plan to have all this happen at once.”

“No need to explain, Bungo. It’s good to know you’ll be getting some company up here. From inside and out,” he adds with a weak laugh.

“Thank you for understanding. Er…” Bungo trails off, assessing the doctor’s appearance.

Grubb solves the awkward situation himself. “Might I use your bathroom?” he asks. “I would request to run home for a change, but I’d rather not walk through town like this, if you understand. Wouldn’t do much good for a doctor’s reputation.”

“Certainly, it’s just down the hall. I can get you some of my own things to wear. We’re about the same size, it seems.” A bit hard to tell under all the grime, though.

“Thank you very much, Bungo. I’ll be sure to return them immediately, of course.”

Grubb mercifully walks on his tiptoes across the floor, taking wide strides for minimal damage. _Thank goodness for civilized people_ , Bungo internally sighs.

Once he’s set Grubb up in the bathroom, Bungo goes looking for Belladonna. Passing the pantry, he hears a familiar crunch and retraces his steps. Sure enough, behind one of the shelves, he discovers the ever present sight of his wife snacking. It’s a new habit of hers to forgo plates and silverware and even tables between meals in favor of drifting from room to room with her hand in various food containers. He woke up the other night to find her out of bed and grabbing biscuit after biscuit from the jar on the mantle. At the moment, she’s picking at a bowl of hazelnuts.

“Did I hear the doorbell?” she asks, licking her thumb and reaching for the peach preserves.

“Ah ah ah,” Bungo warns before she can stick her forefinger into the jar. He hurries across the way to the kitchen to fetch her a spoon. He’s grown to accept her uncouth habits, to a point. Fingers in preserves cross that point. “Yes, the doorbell rang. It was Dr. Grubb.”

“Oh, that’s right, he was calling today, wasn’t he?” she says, voice muffled by the spoon. “Well then, where is he?”

“In the bathroom washing mud off himself.”

"Why on earth is he…” She lowers the spoon from her lips in realization. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Which means we should probably limit our visitors until things settle down out there.”

“Hmm, I suppose that’s for the best,” Belladonna agrees, twirling the spoon in her hand now. “After all, it’ll give us more time to ourselves,” she adds, and he hears it in her voice.

Sure enough, after one last spoonful, she places the jar on a nearby shelf and promptly hooks a finger into the _v_ of his waistcoat, pulling him towards her and leaning up with a glint in her eye.

Bungo’s face is ablaze.

“My dear, we have company,” he reminds her.

“You said yourself, he’s in the bathroom,” she whispers, closing the distance.

Oh, she is a bad influence. And her kisses taste like peaches, confound her.

He places his hands on her hips and delights in the new roundness he feels there. He adores Belladonna any which way, but he won’t deny he’s enjoying the side effects of her current situation.

“We must take you shopping,” he murmurs when they part, running his fingers over the particularly snug areas of her dress for emphasis.

“Do you disapprove?” she asks cheekily.

“Not in the slightest,” he breathes, leaning forward again. Her lips are difficult to capture, stretched in a broad smile as they are, but he manages.

The bell rings. They pause, noses brushing.

"Did you invite someone?” he asks. She shakes her head.

Bungo turns to go answer it, but Belladonna won’t release her grip. He looks back to see her pouting at him.

“Darling,” he chuckles, “now we have _two_ guests, so this is doubly inappropriate.”

“Exactly,” she says with a grin, tugging him towards her.

The bell rings again, more insistently this time. Belladonna groans and lets him go.

He laughs and pulls her along by the hand as they approach the door.

One of Minto’s workers is standing on their porch beside an elderly hobbit woman. She has tangled white hair, skin so papery it looks as if one wrong move would tear it, and a ratty shawl draped over her hunched shoulders. She leans on a cane carved ornately with a bird motif, and her pale blue eyes are unfocused.

“Sir,” the worker says, “this lady was looking for you.”

“Mrs. Brownlock,” Belladonna greets, and Bungo recalls Old Took’s mention of a supposedly first-rate midwife by that name. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“You’ll have to speak up, dear,” Mrs. Brownlock insists, voice weary.

“I said, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Belladonna shouts.

“Well, there’s no need to scream at me, young lady,” Mrs. Brownlock says disapprovingly. “Your parents sent me over. Said you were with child.”

Bungo turns to look at his wife, who is very deliberately avoiding eye contact. “Well, yes, I am,” she says, “but I’m not sure—”

“Very good, let’s get started,” the old lady interrupts, jerking her arm away from the young hobbit’s protective clasp, hobbling her way into the house and showing herself into the parlor.

As soon as Mrs. Brownlock is out of earshot (it doesn’t take long), Bungo turns to Belladonna and hisses, “You told them?”

“The last time I went to visit I may have mentioned—very briefly—that we were seeing the doctor today,” she whispers back. “I hardly thought they would plan a sabotage.”

“Your father almost leapt across our dining table over the matter,” Bungo retorts.

“Fair enough, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. We can hardly send her away. She probably wouldn’t even understand.”

They glance into the parlor, where Mrs. Brownlock is attempting to sit in a chair from the back. Dr. Grubb, who has just emerged from the bathroom in a clean set of clothes, rushes forward to catch her by the arm before she falls.

“ _She_ delivers babies?” Bungo wonders, mildly horrified.

Belladonna shrugs. “I’ve never seen it in progress, but we all turned out just fine, didn’t we?”

Bungo considers Belladonna’s siblings. “I’d rather not risk it.”

After a deep breath and the unspoken question of how on earth they continue to find themselves in such messes, the Bagginses join their guests. “Dr. Grubb,” Bungo begins, “may I introduce Mrs. Brownlock.”

“Yes, we’ve just become acquainted,” Grubb replies, still slightly flustered from having to maneuver the old granny into her chair from the proper direction.

“Right. Well, allow me to explain.” Bungo wonders whether he should lie, but he’s found that tends to cause him more trouble than it’s worth. He settles with a half-truth. This isn’t his fault, after all. “Our parents—Belladonna’s and mine—are in a bit of disagreement about how we should handle all this, and we promised them we’d explore all our options before coming to a decision.”

He finishes with an obvious wink, not even bothering to check if Mrs. Brownlock is looking, since he’s sure it wouldn’t make a difference.

“Ah,” Grubb says in understanding. “I should have guessed. To be honest, the folks in town have been taking wages about which family will have the upper hand in all this. I don’t participate in such activities, but…”

“Is that so?” muses Bungo.

The town’s awareness that Belladonna is with child is not news to either of the Bagginses, although the betting certainly is. Their last trip to the market had its usual length doubled thanks to how many hobbits, both familiar and unfamiliar, offered their congratulations.

At first Bungo had assumed they were referring to his latest slogan for Mr. Boffin’s tailoring business: _Boffin measures up to your expectations._ (His first idea, _From cradle to coffin, dress well with Boffin_ , was understandably deemed too morbid.) As soon as he observed so many of the congratulators gesturing to Belladonna’s midsection, however, he realized that was not the case.

There were celebratory nods in passing, emotional speeches about how deserving they are, and of course an abundance of unsolicited advice. When Mrs. Frumblefoot attempted to look up Belladonna’s skirt, they knew it was time to go home

After speaking to enough people, Bungo gleaned that his father had shared the information shortly after what he and Belladonna are now referring to as The Incident. Mungo reportedly offered it up one evening around his table at the Green Dragon. Word travels fast from there. The stronger the ale, the wider the tale, Bungo always says.

(It most likely spread faster in Tuckborough, considering how many Tooks there are to spread it, and how much stronger they prefer their ale.)

It isn’t that Bungo objects to anyone knowing about their situation. Indeed, they’re bound to discover it eventually. But he isn’t exceptionally fond of being the center of attention, and he would rather not have all eyes on him as he purchases his potatoes, no matter how well-meaning they are.

“Have you got any salt?” Mrs. Brownlock suddenly croaks from her seat.

“Er, yes?” Bungo replies uncertainly.

“I’ll need it to check on the baby.”

Bungo glances questioningly at Grubb, who shakes his head.

“And she’ll need to swallow a teaspoon of vinegar,” the old lady adds.

Bungo turns to Belladonna with raised eyebrows. “Well, dear. You like pickles. How do you feel about becoming one?”

Belladonna sighs. “It won’t hurt to humor her.”

That’s how she ends up lying on the bed with her belly uncovered (there’s a subtle swell to it now, and Bungo’s heart feels as if it’s growing with it) as an old hobbit midwife sprinkles salt over her navel.

Bungo and Dr. Grubb stand watching from the foot of the bed. Bungo insisted the doctor observe in case Mrs. Brownlock attempts something medically unsound.

“I will listen now,” she announces, lowering her ear to Belladonna’s belly.

“Good luck with that,” Bungo says in barely a whisper, and Mrs. Brownlock’s obliviousness to the remark proves his point.

“It’s a boy,” the old woman says after only a few seconds.

“How could you possibly know that?” Bungo scoffs, before turning to Dr. Grubb for confirmation. He doesn’t know much about these things, after all.

“Ma’am,” Grubb attempts as gently as he can for the volume he’s forced to use. “There is no way to determine the sex of the child before it’s born. Least of all by listening through a dusting of salt,” he adds with a chuckle.

Mrs. Brownlock ignores him, only lifts her head from Belladonna’s middle, sits back in her chair, and adjusts her shawl.

“She’s always been right,” Belladonna says, sitting up and brushing the salt off her belly. Bungo makes a mental note to change the sheets, not an uncommon occurrence these days thanks to his wife’s nighttime nibbling.

“I beg your pardon?” Grubb asks.

“About the sex,” she clarifies, beginning to redress. “She’s always been right, with all of us. So my parents say. I was old enough to watch her do this when Isengar was in the belly. Sure enough, she said boy.”

“Well,” Grubb says, skeptical, “perhaps your parents were exaggerating.”

Tooks and exaggeration tend to go hand in hand, at least in the opinion of the rest of the Shire.

“Perhaps,” Belladonna concedes without truly conceding. She swings her feet over the side of the bed. “Mrs. Brownlock, thank you so much for the visit. Let us show you to the door now. We’ll contact you if we need anything else.”

Belladonna helps the old woman out of her seat and guides her towards the door of the bedroom. “Bungo? Perhaps you could assist Mrs. Brownlock down The Hill while Dr. Grubb begins his check-up?”

“Don’t brush your hair too often, dear. Bad for the child,” Mrs. Brownlock advises as Belladonna hands her over to her husband.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Belladonna assures her.

Before he takes the lady out of the house, Bungo turns to his wife. “You say she was right about all twelve of you?”

Belladonna shrugs, smirking.

Oh, that’s just ridiculous. She couldn’t know such a thing. It simply isn’t possible, and Bungo certainly doesn’t spend his entire walk down The Hill pondering boys’ first names and smiling to himself like a fool, if that’s what you’re thinking.

When he’s guided Mrs. Brownlock beyond the construction work and onto safer ground, Bungo says a polite farewell to her and turns around, only to have her catch him by the sleeve and pull him back with a startling amount of strength.

“That child,” she says, poking a crooked finger into his chest, “will be remarkable.”

Bungo stares at her curiously as she releases her grip and moves away, nodding to herself and muttering “remarkable, remarkable” as she goes.

 _Remarkable_ , Bungo thinks as he makes his way back to Bag End, _is far too Tookish a word._

He returns home to find Dr. Grubb using a much more professional method of listening to Belladonna’s belly—with an oddly shaped wooden device similar to an ear trumpet.

“Bungo!” Belladonna cries excitedly. “Come listen to the baby’s heartbeat! He says he can hear it!”

Bungo pauses in the doorway, her words sinking in. He didn’t think such a thing was possible, and he suddenly finds it very hard to move. “Truly?” he asks quietly.

Dr. Grubb lifts his ear from the trumpet and stands up from the chair beside the bed. He urges Bungo over with a nod and a smile.

When Bungo is seated, the doctor positions the device on Belladonna’s belly and allows him to lower his ear to it. He feels rather absurd, but not as absurd as he would feel listening through salt, so he accepts it. With Dr. Grubb’s help, they move the trumpet until a suitable spot is found, and when it finally happens Bungo nearly jerks away from the shock of it.

He can hear it, like wind through the branches of their oak tree on a blustery day.

 _Boom boom, boom boom, boom boom_. Steady, oh so steady, and strong.

“Remarkable,” he can’t help but mumble.

He feels Belladonna’s hand on his shoulder and lifts his head to look at her. She’s smiling at him, and her eyes are bright with budding tears. “It’s real,” she says softly.

He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. A tear trickles down the length of one of her fingers. He wipes it away and looks back up at her. “It’s real,” he echoes.

After allowing Bungo another moment of listening, Dr. Grubb puts the trumpet back into his mud-caked satchel and tells them everything seems to be just fine so far. The Bagginses show him to the door, where he promises to return Bungo’s clothes as soon as possible. He offers them a parting congratulations and a friendly nod, and then he’s off down the lane to face the construction again.

When the door has been closed, Bungo turns to give Belladonna a celebratory kiss, but his lips are met with thin air. He peers into the parlor to find her back at the biscuits, grabbing a handful from the jar and plopping herself onto the loveseat to enjoy them.

He smiles and silently joins her, accepting the meager morsel she offers him. Their moment in the pantry, coupled with the emotion of the doctor’s visit, has turned him embarrassingly affectionate, and he quickly finds himself leaning down with his ear pressed against Belladonna’s middle.

Belladonna laughs. “What are you doing?”

“I want to hear it again. Ach, I should have asked him for one of those trumpets to keep at home.”

“Look at you,” Belladonna snorts as Bungo shifts to lie on his back with his head in her lap. “Have you been at the Old Winyard when I wasn’t looking?”

“What? I can be silly,” he says defensively, adding, “when no one else is around.”

"Ah, so this is just for me, then. I’m honored.”

They stay like this for a few moments, listening to the birds chirping outside and the quiet crunch of the biscuits between Belladonna’s teeth, before Bungo speaks.

“Mrs. Brownlock said something to me when I walked her down The Hill.”

“Did she?” Belladonna’s fingers lace together with his where they rest on his chest.

“Mm. She said this child will be remarkable.”

“Of course it will.”

Yes, he figured she’d say that. “Because it’ll be a Took?”

“No,” she answers, and Bungo twists his neck to look up at her. She gazes down at him with gentle eyes and adds, “Because it’ll be ours.”

Bungo can’t find any words in his vocabulary to respond to such a sentiment in the way it deserves to be responded to. So he settles on turning his head and nuzzling his nose into the soft cloth covering her belly.

He’s just closing his eyes and thinking he could fall asleep to the feeling of Belladonna running her fingers through his hair when the doorbell rings.

Not again.

“Tell me this isn’t a third doctor sent over by some distant relative,” Bungo says, reluctantly sitting up.

“If it is, I didn’t know about it,” Belladonna insists.

Bungo is very tempted to ignore the call and pretend they’re not at home, but with the construction happening just down the way, he supposes it might be important. So he sighs and straightens his clothes and pads into the entrance hall, hoping this will be over quickly so he can get back to his tiny paradise of a loveseat.

He opens the door.

It hardly seemed possible, but Dr. Grubb is even muddier this time.

“It appears I have those clothes to return to you sooner than I thought,” he says, wiping off one cheek and blinking through slimy lashes.

Bungo leads him once again to the bathroom, thankful he lent him his least favorite waistcoat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titles of the chapters refer to months in the Shire calendar. The events of each chapter take place in that month, unless otherwise stated. This chapter occurs in Astron, the fourth month, which equates to our March 23 to April 21.
> 
> Just a heads up, I'm changing up my posting schedule for this fic to add more days between chapters so I can post the one with Bilbo's birth on September 22. I know that's not his birthday in our calendar, but it's when we celebrate it, so I thought it would be a fun contribution to Hobbit Day.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Reminder that I'm on [Tumblr](http://myrtlebroadbelt.tumblr.com).


	5. Thrimidge

“Belladonna, we’re going to be late!”

“I have to find my hat!”

“Just wear one of the hats out here!”

“No, I have to wear the one Mirabella made me! It matches my dress perfectly!”

Oh no, not the hat Mirabella made her. Bungo remembers it all too well. He was there when it was born, at their kitchen table in Tuckborough. He recalls asking his sister-in-law if it was necessary to put quite so many feathers, when she had already sewn at least three dozen buttons, not to mention the ribbons.

He’s currently waiting for his wife in the entrance hall while she ventures through Bag End on her quest for the hideous headgear. They’re preparing to attend his sister Linda’s birthday party across The Water, and Bungo is terrified of arriving late.

“Belladonna, we don’t have much time to waste!”

“Found it!” she calls from the study.

Bungo breathes a sigh of relief and turns to open the door so they can be on their way.

“How do I look?” Belladonna asks from behind him. He turns and fails to hide his cringe over what he discovers.

That dreadful hat. It’s even worse than he remembered. Bungo raises his hand to cover it in his field of vision, disguising the gesture behind brushing his hair away from his forehead. This way he doesn’t have to lie when he says that what he does see—Belladonna’s face, the soft blue of her brand new dress, the gentle curve of her growing belly—is lovely.

They mercifully don’t have any construction work to pass on their way down The Hill, since Minto’s team is working on a home in Nobottle most of this month. Bungo still insists on holding Belladonna’s arm in case any stray hammers were left behind, lest she meet a fate similar to Dr. Grubb’s.

Bagshot Row isn’t much more than holes stuffed with wood at the moment. Their true character has yet to be revealed, and it makes him wonder what stage their child has reached. Would the windows be the eyes? The hinges the joints? Do they arrive in the same order? He’s not sure how it all works, but he does know one thing for certain—that there’s a heart in there, and it’s beating.

 _The heart is the hearth_ , he thinks as they cross the bridge.

“Remind me again how old Linda is, dear?” Belladonna asks.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Ah, same age as I was when I married you.”

“Oh yes, you were, weren’t you?”

“Just the same. And you were almost one year out of your tweens, which you were eager to remind me every time we had an argument.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You’re just forgetful in your old age.”

Bungo makes an offended noise, and Belladonna latches onto his arm, laughing.

“I believe I just turned the tables on you, dear husband.”

“I believe you did.”

She tugs him tighter against her. “So tell me. Has Linda found her _someone_ yet?”

“I am not privy to my sister’s romantic prospects, thank you very much, nor would I wish to be. If she has found someone, I’ll know when they announce their engagement, and no sooner will I—”

“Oh, very well. I’ll just ask her myself.”

* * *

Linda’s party is in an open field in Hobbiton that has been dusted with wooden tables and tents for shade. Spring is out in full force, and Bungo inhales the fresh air with a smile as they approach. Most of the guests have already arrived and piled their plates high with his mother’s cooking. There are certainly no fireworks or loud music at a Baggins-hosted event, but give a group of hobbits a sunny day and plenty of food, with some ale to wash it all down, and a good time is sure to be had. Everyone’s dressed in bright colors and flushed cheeks, their hair ruffled by the cool breeze. The area is buzzing with conversation.

“You’re late.”

There’s just one conversation Bungo wishes wouldn’t buzz quite so close to his ear.

“Sorry about that, Father,” he says as he turns to face his doom. Just as he’s about to concoct some flimsy excuse about the construction work—Mungo doesn’t know it’s been halted, after all—or a vegetable cart blocking the bridge, Belladonna cuts in.

“It was my fault, sir.”

Bungo flinches.

Oh dear, she’s going to mention the hat. He’s sure his father has already noticed it and thought of at least a dozen reasons to hate it. He’d really rather it not also be revealed as the cause of their tardiness.

“My apologies. I was feeling quite ill this morning,” Belladonna continues, rubbing her belly for emphasis. Bungo looks at her with raised eyebrows.

Such an excuse bypasses even Mungo’s capacity for disapproval, and it clearly catches him off guard. “Oh. Well, that’s quite all right,” he says uneasily. “I hope you’re feeling better now.”

“Very much so,” Belladonna assures him. “Thank you for your concern. And what a lovely event you’ve put together here.”

“Thank you very much,” Mungo says, clearly flustered for no longer having an excuse to scold anyone. “Well then, if you’ll excuse me, I have some guests I’ve yet to greet. Splendid to see both of you.”

When he’s disappeared, Bungo turns to his wife in amazement. “That was brilliant. He didn’t know what to say.”

She shrugs. “He can’t exactly reprimand me for carrying his grandchild, can he?”

“You should use that more often, you know. If you’d known about this when we first hired Minto, he may have built us the houses for nothing,” he laughs. “And thank you, by the way. I never would have heard the end of it.”

“Well, I _was_ the reason we were late, after all, if for a much less noble reason.” She adjusts the ribbons on said reason and looks around. “Now, where is the lady of the hour? I want my present.”

The lady of the hour is at the back table, which is covered end to end with various items to give away. The pile was surely much larger at the start of the party, but no doubt the guests were almost as eager to receive their gifts as they were to eat the food. She grins at them as they approach and hurries from behind the spread of mathoms to greet them. She’s brown-haired and plump, just like her mother, and she wears a yellow dress and a magnolia blossom tucked behind her ear.

Linda eyes Belladonna’s belly and hugs her timidly, clearly afraid she’ll do some sort of damage. Belladonna only squeezes her tighter. “Don’t worry, I’m not made of porcelain.”

Once they’ve both said happy birthday and Bungo has marveled—the same as every year—at how quickly his little sister has grown, it’s time to receive their gifts. For Belladonna, it’s a simple wooden case containing a set of small silver spoons whose handles have been delicately engraved with acorns.

“They’re for feeding the baby,” Linda explains. “I saw them and thought of your oak tree. I understand if you’d rather have something just for you, though. I can—”

Belladonna cuts her off with another hug. “They’re perfect,” she whispers, and she continues to admire them with a loving gaze while Bungo prepares to receive his own gift.

He perks up in anticipation. After seeing those spoons, he’s looking forward to this immensely. Perhaps it’s a pipe or a set of embroidered handkerchiefs or a brand new brush for his feet or a…

“It’s a pouf!” Linda declares merrily, picking it up from the group of larger objects on the grass next to the table.

“Yes, it certainly is,” Bungo agrees, accepting it. That’s easier said than done. What does one do with a pouf when it’s been handed to one?

It’s a nice-looking enough pouf, of course—a wooden base and toffee-colored upholstery. It’ll look just fine anywhere in Bag End. But to say it’s cumbersome would be an understatement. While Belladonna can hold her tiny case of baby spoons in one hand or slip it into the pocket of her dress, he’s not even sure he has enough arms for this thing.

“Thank you, Linda,” he says, awkwardly balancing the pouf on one shoulder and patting her arm with his free hand. “Happy birthday.”

He’s ready to set out in search of a place to set this thing down, but Belladonna has other ideas. Specifically, the idea to ask Linda about her _someone_.

The lass blushes to the tips of her ears. “Oh, I don’t know about all that.” But after some goading from her sister-in-law, she finally replies, “Well, there is one…”

That’s Bungo’s cue to take his pouf and go. “I’ll take my leave of you ladies now, if you don’t mind.”

They don’t seem to notice that he’s gone, caught up as they are in their discussion of Linda’s suitor. Bungo believes he hears the name Proudfoot. He’s determined not to interfere, but he can’t help thinking she could do better.

With his vision blocked on one side by his new gift, Bungo bumps into more than one mingling party guest on his way to the food tent, muttering apologies along the way.

His brother Longo is busy serving a queue of hungry guests, heaping large spoonfuls of meat and potatoes and fresh vegetables onto their plates before directing them to the barrels of refreshment at the end of the table. When it’s Bungo’s turn to be served, Longo struggles to contain his laughter over his clumsy balancing act.

“Well, what did you get?” Bungo grumbles as his brother prepares his plate.

Longo tugs at the cravat that’s been tied around his neck and tucked neatly into his waistcoat. It’s dark green and embroidered with subtle ivy leaves. Most importantly, it’s small and lightweight and doesn’t risk hitting someone in the face. “Lovely,” Bungo says bitterly as he accepts his meal. He turns to the barrels, prepared to fill a cup to the brim with ale, before realizing it will be impossible to carry.

“Sticklebats,” he mutters under his breath.

“Need a hand?” a familiar and very amused voice asks from behind him.

“Several,” Bungo sighs as Belladonna reaches past him to pull a mug from the stack.

“Take your pouf and sit down. I’ll bring you your drink,” she says with a smirk. “Linda said we’re to sit over there.” She nods to a long wooden table currently occupied by Bungo’s parents and his other two siblings, Belba and Bingo, as well as Belba’s husband Rudigar Bolger—Rudy for short.

Bungo makes his way over, his meal almost spilling more than once in his attempt to maneuver through the crowd. Once he’s arrived safely and greeted everyone, he sets his pouf on the ground under the table, fully prepared to put his feet up on it for the entire afternoon. If he has to carry it all the way home, he’s at least going to enjoy it first.

The family is in the midst of discussing who was and was not able to attend today. Apparently a few Boffins had already committed to another birthday party at the same time, while more than one Grubb had been conveniently left off the guest list after dancing a bit too merrily on the tables last year and shattering some of the Bagginses’ best crockery.

It’s Rudy who brings up the Tooks, and it’s mercifully at the same time as Belladonna joins the table with a towering plate of food in one hand and two mugs in the other—one with Bungo’s ale, and one with punch for herself. Mungo therefore chooses the more polite explanation for only inviting one member of his least favorite family.

“Well, it’s just that we only have so many resources, and the Tooks have never been particularly close to Linda. Begging Belladonna’s pardon.”

“Of course,” Belladonna says after a gulp of punch. “How could Linda be expected to give such thoughtful gifts to people she hardly knows?” She punctuates this with a teasing kick to Bungo’s ankle where it rests on his own thoughtful gift.

“Precisely,” Mungo agrees. “It’s nothing personal.”

On the contrary, it’s everything personal.

“But Father,” Bingo, the family’s youngest, objects, “Linda knows the Tooks. She sees them all the time when she—”

“Bingo,” Laura warns quietly.

“Oh, that’s right,” the tween remembers, “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“Talk about what?” Mungo asks with narrowed eyes.

“It’s nothing,” Laura insists.

“Bingo, what were you going to say?” Mungo presses.

Bingo looks terrified, glancing frantically from one parent or the other, knowing he’ll get in trouble no matter how this goes, and obviously weighing whose punishment will be worse. As he and all of his siblings know all too well, the answer to that is always Mungo.

“I’m not supposed to tell you, but Linda takes letters to the Great Smials sometimes,” he blurts.

“Letters? What kind of letters?”

“Letters from Mother. To Mrs. Took. Oh, why did I say anything?” Bingo puts his head in his hands.

Mungo turns to his wife. “Laura? Is this true?”

Laura has suddenly become very fascinated by the carrots on her plate. “Yes,” she mumbles.

Mungo seems more incredulous than angry. “Why on earth would you be writing to Adamanta Took?”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t discuss this now,” Laura suggests. “We’ll talk about it later, shall we?”

“We’ll talk about it right now,” Mungo says, more angry than incredulous now. “Now tell me. Why are you writing to Adamanta Took?”

“Oh for the love of—” Laura drops her fork with a clang. “Because I like her. Is that a good enough reason?”

Mungo appears even more taken aback by this than he was when Belladonna gave him a perfectly valid excuse for their lateness earlier. The idea that his wife actively _likes_ a member of the Took family is apparently too appalling an idea to touch at the moment, because he opts for a different line of questioning.

“How long has this been going on?”

Laura returns her attention to her carrots. “Ten years.”

“ _Ten years?_ ” Mungo shouts, causing every head at the party to turn. He clears his throat and lowers his voice. “Why would you keep such a thing from me?”

Laura sighs. “Because you would have disapproved.”

“Of course I would have disapproved. I also disapprove of you keeping secrets from me.”

“Well, that’s just the problem, isn’t it?” she snaps (an uncommon verb where Laura Baggins is concerned), finally lifting her head to look her husband in the eye. “Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I don’t need your approval for everything I do? That I can make my own decisions about whom to like and dislike, and communicate with whomever I choose as often as I please?”

Belladonna suddenly leans forward to whisper to Bungo in a rush: “As much as it pains me to tear myself away from the proceedings, someone’s just passed with a mug of apple cider, and I think you can figure out the rest.” And with that she stands up from the table and scrambles towards a tree on the outskirts of the party.

Meanwhile, Mungo is recovering from the shock of his wife’s outburst and attempting a rebuttal. “I had hoped you’d have enough loyalty not to communicate with people who have consistently treated our family with disrespect, not to mention exploiting our good name for their own benefit.”

“When have you known them to do such a thing?” Laura questions.

Mungo glances at Belladonna’s empty chair before answering, “When they sent their eldest daughter to court our eldest son.”

Bungo turns his head so quickly it hurts his neck.

“They were out to save their questionable reputation,” his father continues, “which had just recently been tarnished worse than ever before by the suspicious disappearance of one of their sons. That you would not only communicate with such people, but do it behind my back and use one of our own children to help you, is a betrayal from which I will not soon recover.”

The table falls silent. Bingo still has his head in his hands, no doubt cursing himself for his slip of the tongue. Belba and Rudy are picking at their food without eating it. Laura appears exasperated to the point of speechlessness. Bungo can’t help but feel he is the one who should say something, considering how much of what his father has just said relates to him, but he’s far too busy questioning everything he’s ever known to utter even a single word.

Belladonna soon returns to the table, retying the ribbons on that hideous hat.

“What did I miss?” she hisses at Bungo excitedly.

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean _nothing_?”

“I mean you didn’t miss anything.”

Just as Belladonna opens her mouth to reply, Linda approaches the group, wearing a fresh-faced grin and blissfully unaware of what has just transpired, or what she has to do with it. “I’ve handed out all the presents!” she declares.

It takes a moment for the inhabitants of the table to catch up to what’s happening. They look up at her with blank expressions before Mungo finally grabs his glass of wine and taps his fork against the side, attracting the rest of the party’s attention.

Mungo delivers a respectable birthday toast of just the right length, and the gathered company drinks to Linda’s health. If only they could have drunk to the magical nonexistence of the preceding fifteen minutes. As it is, the rest of the afternoon is experienced with no small amount of tension by the members of the family table. Linda—and Longo, who was busy spooning potatoes when the conflict occurred—appears bewildered by the family’s attitude, but they all try their very hardest to remain civil for her sake.

The tension extends to Belladonna and Bungo when they make their way home later in the golden light of the early evening as the sun is just threatening to set. Ever since Belladonna returned to the table after her unfortunate emergency, Bungo’s responses to his wife’s attempts at communication have been at best unenthusiastic and at worst irritated.

This would all be bad enough if Bungo didn’t have to carry an unwieldy pouf all the way home. It keeps slipping off his shoulder when he carries it one-handed, and when he opts for two hands he can’t see what’s in front of him over the size of the thing.

It’s all made worse by his father’s earlier words gnawing relentlessly at  his brain, as well as the fact that Belladonna won’t stop asking him what is the matter.

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m perfectly fine,” he answers, switching the pouf to the shoulder nearest to her so she can’t see his face and he doesn’t have to keep seeing hers out of the corner of his eye.

“Bungo, I know that something’s wrong. I always know. Just tell me so we can move past it.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” he insists from behind his upholstered barrier. He wonders if changing the subject will do any good. “Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

Belladonna is having none of that. She stops walking just as they’ve begun to cross the bridge. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Bungo! Put that pouf down and tell me what’s wrong!”

Reluctantly, he stops, and he turns around, and he wonders if he should say it, or if he should just leave it be. But Belladonna has that look, and she knows something is wrong, and knowing her, she won’t give up until it’s dragged out of him kicking and screaming.

So there, on Hobbiton Bridge, with the occasional townsperson strolling past carrying baskets of produce, he puts the pouf down.

“It’s just something my father said.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific. The gentleman has a lot to say.”

“It was while you were up from the table to…” He supposes she doesn’t need a reminder and therefore skips over the details. “Well, he was upset about our mothers being in contact, and he began to talk about when we were first courting.”

“Yes?”

“And he… suggested… that you…”

“That I what?”

“That your… interest in me… was…”

“Oh, just spit it out, Bungo!”

“He said you married me for my respectability!” he blurts. “That your family was seeking to improve their reputation, and that the best way they found to do it was to marry you off to me.”

Belladonna stares at him with wide eyes. He hasn’t seen her this gobsmacked since that time he admitted to reading her journal. Oh, why did he have to say anything? Better yet, why did he have to hear his father’s words in the first place? Ignorance is bliss when it prevents Belladonna Baggins from looking at him this way.

It would be nice if she said something now. That is, unless it wouldn’t.

“He said that,” she eventually begins, “and you believed him?”

“Well, no. Not as such. And yet I… I _have_ always wondered…”

“Am I truly hearing you say these words?” She’s quiet, the calm before the storm.

“It’s just that you… And I’m… Well, what reason would someone like you have to…”

“To what? To love you?”

“Well, yes. At first. But over the years... perhaps you changed your mind. Perhaps time deepened your feelings for me, once we were settled and you had my name.”

“My goodness! I can’t decide if you think too much of yourself or too little.”

“We’re very different, Belladonna. We come from very different… sensibilities. You can’t blame me for questioning how we even came to be associated with one another.”

“Can’t I?” she scoffs. “Honestly, Bungo, will you always have such little faith in me?”

“Wait just a moment, I—”

Belladonna is not being so quiet anymore.

“It’s always something, some new reason to doubt me. If it’s not me running off to live with the elves, it’s that I would rather be married to Gandalf. And if it’s not that then… _this_? As if you’ve ever known me to care about such a thing as _respectability_!”

“But your family—”

“ _My_ family?” Belladonna, who is slightly shorter than her husband, abruptly steps onto the pouf that sits on the ground between them so that she’s now looking down at him. “You speak of _my_ family’s motives? Do you think I didn’t hear what my father said at tea that day? Do you think I don’t know that money was the only thing that could convince your own that I was a suitable match?”

“Yes, that’s true. But it wasn’t like that for me. It wasn’t even on my mind except as a last resort to gain his permission. I don’t care about—”

“I know you don’t. You wouldn’t write slogans for haircutters and butchers if you married me to live off my fortune. You wouldn’t dig three new holes into our hill to make your own way. And I realized that. I hung on my father’s words at first, like you’re doing now. But in an instant I saw how absurd it was to doubt you for your family’s opinion. What does it matter what their reasons were? I know yours, and I know mine. And that’s where it stops. I hoped you would see that too.”

She down stares at him, seemingly satisfied with her side of the argument and awaiting his response. The sun is glittering against the water over the side of the bridge behind her, and the birds chirping around them have never sounded louder, emphasizing just how strapped he is for a rebuttal.

He can only stare up at her, watching the way the ribbons of that ridiculous hat of hers dance in the breeze, her loose curls fluttering around her shoulders. His eyes scan her face, the first one he sees every morning and the last he sees at night. He finds defiance there, and a flicker of hurt, but he knows that the cause of both can only be one thing.

“Love, I…”

“ _Oh!_ ”

“Belladonna?”

All at once she’s clutching her belly, but he doesn’t see any pain in her eyes, just surprise.

“It kicked!” she declares.

“What?”

“The baby! It kicked! Come here.” She takes his hand and places it palm-down over her belly, holding it firmly in place.

They wait for a few hushed moments, but nothing stirs.

“I swear I felt it. Where has it gone?” Belladonna mutters.

Bungo looks from their joined hands up to his wife’s face, which is tilted down to focus on her own belly, as if to will the baby to move again. He feels enormously guilty, and is about to try apologizing again when he feels a thump beneath his palm.

“There it is!” Belladonna gasps. “Did you feel that?”

“Yes. I felt it.”

Belladonna glances up at him with joy in her eyes, her hand still sheltering his own against her middle. Her expression sobers as the events of a few moments ago sink back in.

“Perhaps it doesn’t like us to fight,” she says, gently squeezing his hand.

“Perhaps not,” he replies, and then, after a deep breath: “Belladonna, I’ve been a fool, and I’m sorry. I let my doubt blind me to what I know in my heart to be true.”

“And what is that?” she asks, lifting her chin.

“That you love me. That you always have. And that you married me for it. As I did you.”

“Well,” she says, failing to hide her smirk, “I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

“And I was wrong to take my father’s word over yours. Especially after this long.”

She moves his hand from her belly and holds on to it, using it for balance as she steps off the pouf. “You don’t have to be so afraid of him,” she says with a sigh when she’s on solid ground again. “You could learn a thing or two from your mother.”

“I did challenge his authority to marry you, you know,” Bungo objects.

“Yes, and I’m very glad you did. But one arrow, no matter how valiantly fired, does not always a beast slay.”

“And my father is the beast?” No comparison has ever sounded more appropriate.

“Yes,” says Belladonna. “Except that he isn’t. He’s a stuffy old hobbit, which is why this really shouldn’t be so difficult.”

Bungo offers a conceding nod. He lets go of Belladonna’s hand just long enough to put the pouf back on his shoulder, and they continue their walk home.

“Now that we have all that settled,” Belladonna says when they’ve crossed The Water, “let’s talk about what’s really important.”

“And what’s that?”

“What on earth our mothers have been writing each other about for ten years.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titles of the chapters refer to months in the Shire calendar. The events of each chapter take place in that month, unless otherwise stated. This chapter occurs in Thrimidge, the fifth month, which equates to our April 22 to May 21.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Lithe

_Whiz! Pop!_

Bungo jumps for the hundredth time tonight. Gandalf sets off fireworks every Midsummer’s Eve, but his nerves haven’t quite caught up to the tradition.

Belladonna is sitting cross-legged beside him on their patchwork picnic blanket, blowing smoke rings into the balmy night air. Her belly has swelled to a noticeable size beneath her red and gold dress, and she gives it a thoughtful rub. “Do you remember when we first met?” she asks over the noise of the party.

Bungo smiles. “You ask me that question every year on this day, my dear, and the question is always yes. How could I forget?”

“It was right over there,” she says, nodding towards the party tree.

“Mmm,” Bungo mumbles around the stem of his own pipe. “And we were both smoking, just like this.”

“And I asked you to dance.”

“I thought I had wandered into a dream.”

“I’m fairly certain you did,” Belladonna laughs, “judging by how long it took you to answer me.”

“It’s not every day that someone like you asks someone like me to dance. It’s not every day that a lady asks a gentleman to dance at all.”

“Since when?”

“Since whenever Mungo Baggins decided so,” Bungo replies, glancing at a nearby table where his father sits talking to Uncle Largo, the same as every year. Mungo Baggins does not sit on the ground.

“Thank goodness you didn’t think the same way,” Belladonna muses.

Their smoke rings cross paths against the star-studded black of the sky. Then, just when Bungo expects them to dissolve into feathery white wisps and disappear, they turn into something else feathery. The two rings meld together and twist into the shape of a small bird. Almost as quickly as it appears, the shape flaps its wings and soars off over the crowd.

Bungo’s heart stops. Such a trick, paired with the fact that he hasn’t heard or seen a firework in several minutes, can only mean one thing.

“My dear Bagginses!”

Sticklebats.

“Good evening, Gandalf,” Bungo greets, craning his neck to see the wizard. He quickly decides that such a position is both impolite and uncomfortable, so he rises to his feet, helping Belladonna to do the same. They still have to crane their necks, of course, just not at quite so steep an angle.

“Gandalf, it’s been too long,” Belladonna says. “What have you been up to?”

“Ah, always so inquisitive. I’m afraid I can’t share that information. Unless,” he adds with a wink, “you’re interested in one more adventure.”

Bungo feels like he has fireworks in his blood.

“Except it looks as if you’ve already got one in the making,” Gandalf remarks, gesturing to Belladonna’s belly.

Bungo feels warm fingers slip between his own. “The greatest adventure I could hope for,” Belladonna tells the wizard.

“My deepest congratulations,” Gandalf says. “I must say I’ve been hoping for some time that you two would have a child. Could prove useful in the future.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Bungo blurts, and he doesn’t have time to make it sound polite.

“Oh, nothing,” Gandalf answers innocently. “Belladonna, your parents tell me you’re at six months.”

“That’s the estimate.”

“Well, I shall be sure to pay you a visit not long after he’s born.”

“He?” Bungo asks.

“Did I say he?” Gandalf says. “Hmm, interesting. Well, I must be off. The people demand fireworks.”

_Not all the people_ , Bungo thinks. But it gets the wizard out of his hair, so he doesn’t object to it.

“What did he mean it could prove useful?” Bungo asks when he’s gone.

“Oh, don’t listen to Gandalf,” Belladonna says as she sits back down, stubbornly refusing his hand to help her. “Half the time he speaks in riddles, and the other half he just wants to frighten you.”

“Frighten _me_ in particular?”

“Well, I didn’t mean it like that, but come to think of it…”

Bungo plops down beside her miserably, and she laughs, stretching out on her back with her belly in the air. Bungo checks that his father isn’t watching before lying next to her on his side, head propped up on his hand.

“I don’t like the idea of that old man”—another firework explodes as if to announce that Gandalf knows he’s being talked about, and Bungo shivers—“influencing our child.”

“You don’t like the idea of that old man, full stop,” Belladonna corrects. He can’t argue with that. “Trust me, Gandalf the Grey has much more important matters to attend to than the raising of our child.”

“Are you forgetting the time he spent an entire summer in the Shire to offer his opinions on the building of our house?”

Belladonna snorts. “You’re right. He did do that, didn’t he?”

“See what I mean? He gets amusement out of interfering in our lives.”

“My dear, I hardly think this will be the same. Three decades is far longer than three months.”

“Still,” Bungo sighs, shifting to his back, “I’d rather not have him around at all.”

“Bungo, no one will be influencing our child but us. If I have to fend Gandalf off with a sword, it will be so.”

“A sword?” Bungo twists his head to look at her. “You have a sword?”

“No, of course not. I was speaking figuratively.”

He begins composing a mental list of places she could be hiding it.

“Did you see how big that one was?” Belladonna asks about the wizard’s latest blast, but Bungo doesn’t have a chance to respond, as he’s interrupted by a sudden weight on his foot.

Sitting up, he realizes that a clumsy fauntling has stumbled over his ankle and fallen face-first onto the edge of the blanket. Bungo hurries to help the boy to his feet, brushing him off and checking for injury.

“Sorry, mister,” the child mumbles, attempting to straighten his braces but only managing to make them even more twisted.

“That’s all right,” Bungo says. “You should be more careful. Watch where you’re going, and don’t run too fast, or you’ll get hurt.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy says with a sheepish wipe of his nose.

His friends are beckoning to him from where they’ve stopped to wait several feet away, and he looks to Bungo for permission.

“Off you go,” he tells him, “ _carefully_.”

The boy nods obediently and moves off, his cautious saunter quickly transforming into a jog when he’s far enough away to avoid being reprimanded.

Bungo sighs, head falling back to its previous position. “That’s exactly the kind of behavior I don’t want meddling wizards encouraging.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Belladonna laughs. “Surely you had your fair share of skinned knees and muddy toes when you were that age.”

“I like to think I learned from them.”

“Come to think of it, do you remember that time before we were married when we climbed that tree out by the Brandywine, and you fell right on your—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point.”

They lie there for a few more moments, the sound of merry music and beer-soaked laughter punctuated every now and then by a whiz-popper or two. Another group of fauntlings frolics past them, girls this time, all giggles and flowers in their hair.

“What do you think it’ll be like?” Bungo asks, thinking out loud.

“What?”

“Our child. Who do you suppose it’ll take after?”

“Well, both of us, I’d imagine,” Belladonna concludes, lacing her fingers together over the mound of her belly.

“That’ll be confusing.”

“For whom?”

“For everyone.”

“Why, it’s the same for all of us. Look at you. You’ve got your father’s looks, and his preference for washing the dishes as soon as we use them—”

“We can’t just leave them sitting there, Belladonna.”

“—but, like your mother, you’re able to be in the same room with a Took. You’ll even voluntarily speak to one.”

“I’m still reeling from that revelation.”

“I believe your father is, too.”

“Does yours know?”

“Oh yes, he’s known for quite some time now. What does he have to complain about? Your mother sends pies over. He loves her.”

“Speaking of my mother’s pies, how are you feeling about apples these days?”

Belladonna groans. “Don’t even say the word. I can just see it now—it’s all this child will want to eat.”

“What else do you suppose it’ll want to eat?”

“Everything. It will be a hobbit, after all.”

“I mean, what will its favorites be?”

She considers this. “My sweet tooth, and your affection for potatoes,” she decides.

“And what about pickles?” Bungo asks cheekily.

“I’ve fed him so many at this point, I imagine he’ll hate them as much as I hate apples.”

“He?”

“Oh. I didn’t mean to say… I meant... Oh darling, I know you’re not one for leaps of faith”—or any type of leaping—“but she really has always been right, and now with Gandalf… I’ll be overjoyed either way, it’s just…”

“I’ve been thinking about names,” Bungo confesses, thinking this as good a time as any.

“You have?” Belladonna sits up. “And you’ve been keeping them from me?”

“They’re just ideas.”

“Tell me.” She flops onto her side and grins at him expectantly.

“Well, I started thinking, if it’s a boy, about my name, and my father’s name. Mungo, Bungo… Then what would it be? Lungo, Pungo…”

“Fungo, Dungo,” Belladonna adds with mock-seriousness.

He shoots her a look. “Yes, well, as you can see, there aren’t many good options left if we go the rhyming route. And anyway, I started to think that perhaps it should start with a _B_.”

“Of course. So we can all share handkerchiefs.”

“Would you take this seriously, please?” Bungo scolds, laughing despite himself.

“I’m taking this very seriously.”

“I’m sure. In any case, I was thinking maybe Bilbo.”

“Bilbo.” She smiles softly. “Bilbo Baggins. I like that. Have you thought about if it’s a girl?”

“Well, I had considered… No, you’ll think me daft.”

“I hope you realize that now you’ve said that, I won’t stop pestering you until you tell me.”

“Oh, very well. I was thinking—and it was just a thought now, don’t go getting anything embroidered—”

“Just out with it already!”

Bungo gulps. “Miradonna.”

There’s a moment’s silence—as much as there can be during a raucous party—before Belladonna erupts in laughter. “You are absolutely adorable.”

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Look at you, getting all sentimental.”

Bungo isn’t able to give a coherent reply, being too busy trying to hide his rapidly reddening face.

“I’d like to say they’d be honored by it,” Belladonna continues, “but I’m fairly certain Mirabella would gloat about being first, and Donnamira would fume about being second, and by the time we convinced her to think of it as her own name backwards, you’d be wondering why you ever named the child after them in the first place.”

“Very well, I take it back.”

“Oh, but I do want to tell them.”

“Belladonna, don’t you dare! Oh, why did I say anything?”

“Ten years and you still haven’t learned.”

“ _Eleven_ years, in fact. Tonight.”

“Even worse.” She’s getting to her feet now.

“Belladonna, don’t!”

“What? I’m just going to the food tent.”

“Yes, and you’ll just happen to walk past your sisters, and the name will just happen to fall from your lips, and you’ll all just happen to laugh at me.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” And with that, she disappears into the crowd.

Bungo collapses back onto the blanket with a groan. He may have married a tween, but the general idea is that one grows out of such behavior. He suspects Belladonna will be teasing him until they’re old and grey. But when it comes down to it, he supposes, getting to be old and grey with Belladonna is worth several lifetimes of teasing.

Bungo sits up and is in the middle of refilling his pipe when he hears someone calling his name from behind him. He turns to find Hildibrand and his wife Molly approaching him and stands to greet them. Molly’s belly extends not much further than Belladonna’s, and Bungo smiles to remember that another couple is sharing their experience.

That smile begins to fade not far into their conversation once Hildibrand starts bringing up how near their wives are to giving birth.

Bungo gulps. “But surely you’re much closer to that than we are,” he says hopefully, willfully forgetting his observation from just moments ago about the ladies’ comparable bellies.

“Not much,” Molly clarifies. “Only about a month, if what Belladonna told me is true.”

“That close, eh?”

“It’ll be here in no time,” Hildibrand says cheerfully. “What luck that our children will be cousins so similar in age.”

“Yes,” Bungo responds feebly, “what luck.”

The two of them move off shortly thereafter, but Bungo doesn’t retain any more of their conversation, distracted as he is by the fact that he’s only a few short months away from being a father. The realization pushes him back down onto the blanket, and he closes his eyes against the glowing red and green of the ongoing fireworks to consider how he got here.

Weren’t they supposed to have more time? Yes, nine months, he’s always known that. But what once sounded like an eternity to him when he heard it uttered by Minto Bramble about his new houses now feels like the mere blink of an eye.

And when you consider how long he and Belladonna have waited for this… But that’s the thing; they haven’t waited for it. They spent all their years resigned to the fact that it wouldn’t happen, and now they’re standing right at the precipice with nothing to catch their fall.

They should have prepared more. If not in the past ten years, then at least in the past six months.

Well. They have three months. There’s still time. They can do this.

Can’t they?

“Excuse me, handsome gentleman. Would you care to dance?”

Bungo opens his eyes to see Belladonna’s upside-down face peering down at him. He temporarily shoves his worries aside, still marginally aware of them, like an insect that won’t stop flitting past his field of vision.

“But you’re…”

“A lady asking a man to dance? The scandal!”

“No, I mean you’re…”

She pats her belly. “What, this? It may be a bit harder to see my feet, but I’m fairly certain I still have them.” She rubs a few toes experimentally against the opposite ankle. “Yes, there they are, right where they should be.”

“Honestly, dear, you know I’m not one for dancing. I only do it for you…”

“So do it for me!” She nudges his shoulder with her foot. “Up! Up!”

Eleven years later and he still can’t say no to a dance with Belladonna Took.

As it turns out, twirling through the field while weaving in and out of fellow couples’ paths, combined with hearing Gandalf’s fireworks go off every few moments, does wonders to make him forget about his earlier fears. That’s mostly because he has to focus so diligently on not being nauseous.

He does this by picking a fixed point and focusing on it. The point of focus is, of course, Belladonna’s face, which makes things much easier. He never takes his eyes off her for a second, except for once when he glances down at the round belly between them. He falters for a moment, but Belladonna helps him get his balance back, and round and round they go.

When the dance is finished, he has something new to divert his attention.

“Bungo! We heard about the name you thought of!”

* * *

It’s late, and Bungo has a belly full of ale, mince-pies, and watching his father avoid Old Took’s conversation all night. (At one point they played a game of tag around the party tree, but only Old Took was having fun.) He’s sprawled on the blanket with a cool midnight breeze lulling him to sleep when Belladonna rouses him. They’re usually among the last to leave, because the Tooks enjoy laughing and drinking well into the night. Even Gandalf has gone, so it must be very late indeed.

“Let’s get you abed, my dear,” Belladonna says fondly, helping Bungo to fold the blanket. They link their arms together as they walk home. Bungo tells himself it’s to keep Belladonna from stumbling, but it’s actually because he’s on the verge of falling asleep standing up.

As they reach The Hill and pass the construction, Bungo believes he smells burning pipe-weed. He knows they’ve been smoking, and so have countless other hobbits at the party, not to mention the pouches in their pockets. There’s bound to be a lingering smell on their clothes, but this is much stronger than anything he smelled the entire walk home. But who would be smoking pipe-weed on their hill this late at night?

The thought is quickly abandoned as Belladonna guides him through the front door, pulls him down the hall, and pushes him gently onto the bed, where she helps him into his nightshirt and pulls the covers over him. He sinks into the pillow and falls asleep, the warmth of her lips fresh on his forehead.

* * *

Shortly after dawn, the smell of smoke drags Bungo from his sleep. He thinks at first that he must be dreaming it, perhaps something about a bonfire. As wakefulness takes hold, he understands how very real it is.

He shoots up in bed. “Do you smell that?”

Belladonna groans from beside him, unruly hair covering her face. She mumbles something incoherent.

“Belladonna, something’s burning!”

Bungo scrambles out of bed and into the hallway. He walks carefully through Bag End, checking every room for a fire. It’s summer, so they haven’t been using the fireplaces, and the kitchen hearth hasn’t been used since yesterday. They left no candles burning, no pipes forgotten, and he doesn’t even see any smoke in the house. But he can still smell it.

At last he thinks to look out the parlor window, and that’s when he sees it—a thin column of smoke rising from down The Hill. He can’t see the source from this high up, but he hopes beyond hope that it isn’t coming from Bagshot Row. If another family’s house is burning, let everyone be safe and the damage be minimal, but oh for the love of all that is green, don’t let it be Bagshot Row.

It’s Bagshot Row.

Bungo has tugged on a pair of trousers and flung his braces over his nightshirt. He’s told a confused and yawning Belladonna to stay inside, and he’s hurried downhill as fast as his furry feet will carry him. What he finds can only be described as horrifying.

The smoke is billowing from one of the three partially built smials, the middle one to be exact. The fire itself seems to have been put out, but that hasn’t stopped every hobbit on this side of The Water from gathering around to gape at the aftermath. To make matters worse, the crowd is being held off by the last person Bungo wants to see right now—or ever.

“Gandalf!”

The wizard turns to him. “Ah, Bungo! Good morning!”

“Good morning?” Bungo says incredulously. “ _Good morning?_ What on earth happened?”

Gandalf approaches him and clears his throat. “Oh, you mean the smoke?”

“Yes, the smoke! What else would I be talking about?”

Gandalf huffs a weak laugh. “Well, there’s a very simple explanation. I came up last night to see what you’ve been doing with The Hill, not wanting to bother you with showing me around. And seeing as it was getting late, and I have some business to attend to that requires me to depart the Shire quite early, well, it just seemed to make the most sense to spend the night here.”

“You spent the night in there?” Bungo realizes that should be the least of his worries at the moment, but he’s temporarily lost his ability to reason.

“I was sure I wouldn’t disturb you. Only, it seems there’s been a bit of an accident.”

“Yes, it would seem so,” Bungo replies sardonically. “Would you mind telling me what happened?”

“It’s all to do with these fingers of mine, you see.” Gandalf snaps, and a flame appears between his thumb and middle finger. Bungo jumps back. The wizard blows on the flame to extinguish it. “Of course it goes out now, but when I was inside… I wanted to have a smoke before departing this morning, so I lit my pipe, but these confounded fingers don’t always go out when I need them to, and there happened to be an abandoned blueprint nearby. Someone should have been more careful than to leave that lying around.”

Bungo is close to having smoke streaming out of his ears. “You mean to tell me you set my house on fire, after spending the night inside without asking,” he makes sure to add, “all because you couldn’t blow out your fingers after lighting a pipe?”

Gandalf nods. “Yes, that about covers it. I put it out immediately, of course. There’s not much damage, and you’re lucky the house isn’t yet finished. I’m sure it should be no trouble at all to fix it.”

“And who is going to pay for that?” Bungo wonders.

“Well, it’s certainly not going to be me,” Gandalf laughs.

Bungo gapes. “And why not?”

“Bungo Baggins, do you really think I carry mountains of gold around with me?” He gestures to the small cloth bag hanging across his body.

Bungo rubs his temple. “You expect me to pay to repair the damage caused by a fire that was started by you after you slept under my hill without permission?” The more Bungo says it, the more absurd it sounds.

Gandalf sighs, switching his staff over to the other hand. “How does this sound? I’ll pay you with a promise.”

“A promise of payment?”

“No, but I believe you’ll find this to be even more satisfactory. I shall pay you with the promise not to coax your son into any adventures until he’s at least fifty years old. No sooner.”

There he goes again suggesting it will be a boy. Bungo is obviously approving of the idea, but something about it coming from Gandalf annoys him. Indeed, most things about Gandalf annoy him, but this latest proposition has him perking his ears up.

“Why only fifty?” he asks with narrowed eyes. “Why not forever?”

“Well, as I said before, he could prove useful, and I would hate to rule out the possibility entirely. And I can’t promise I won’t run into the boy every now and then when I pass through the Shire. But no adventures until his fiftieth year, at least not any orchestrated by me. And by age fifty, I’m sure you’ll trust him to make the right decision on his own.”

Bungo eyes him skeptically. “How do I know you’ll keep your promise?”

Gandalf huffs an offended scoff. “My dear Bungo, have you so little faith in me? I’m a wizard of my word. I’ll even shake on it.” He holds out an enormous hand. “And look, we have all these witnesses.”

Bungo turns his head and is painfully reminded of the presence of at least a dozen hobbits staring at the pair of them in wonder. Oh dear, why couldn’t it have been an odorless, smokeless fire that came and went without anyone noticing?

Bungo looks back to Gandalf’s hand and hesitates, and not just because he’s worried the wizard’s fingers will burst into flames again. He would feel better if the terms covered the child’s entire life, and even after it, if he’s being honest. But the only other option leaves him with no guarantee at all, and he may as well get _something_ out of this disaster. “Oh, very well.”

They shake on it.

Anyway, by the age of fifty, what use could a child of his have for adventures?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure hobbits wouldn’t know about not smoking while pregnant, so I gave Belladonna a pipe. Don’t smoke, stay in school, etc.
> 
> The titles of the chapters usually refer to the months of the Shire calendar, but in this case Lithe refers to the two feast days on either side of Mid-year’s Day, between Forelithe and Afterlithe, the sixth and seventh months. Midsummer’s Eve is 1 Lithe. The next day is Mid-year’s Day, which corresponds roughly to the summer solstice. After that is 2 Lithe.


	7. Afterlithe

During the seventh month, Bungo and Belladonna make a very special trip into town. It’s partly to spread the news of the nearly completed houses and their search for tenants, and partly because Belladonna has decided it’s about time to stock up on items for the baby. Bungo posts his advertisements ( _Head for The Hill!_ ) on the town bulletin boards, and then she drags him by the hand into shop after shop and booth after booth.

They purchase the simplest garments first—diapers and shirts and bibs. Bungo urges Belladonna not to buy too many, knowing how quickly the child will grow out of them. Once they know the sex with more certainty than midwives and wizards can offer them, they’ll arrange for a custom wardrobe to be made.

In the meantime, Belladonna insists on buying various fabrics and trimmings to make her own baby bonnets. Bungo nods along, privately hoping she doesn’t try to create anything to match that infamous hat of hers. He’d prefer his child not have to balance several birds’ worth of feathers on its head.

They’re just beginning the trek home—with Bungo carrying a cradle that’s even more cumbersome than that blasted pouf—when they hear a familiar peal of laughter behind them.

“My lad, I shall get you some oars and you can row that thing all the way home,” Old Took roars, slapping Bungo on the back and nearly knocking him over.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he says weakly, adjusting his grip on the cradle to stop it from crashing to the ground in a thousand pieces.

“Father, what are you doing in Hobbiton?” Belladonna asks.

“Just out for a walk, enjoying this lovely weather we’ve been having. Might you introduce me to your friend here?”

He’s referring to the toy dragon Belladonna has just purchased. It’s bigger than her head and knitted from the softest red-dyed wool. “It’s just like the one I used to have,” she tells him.

“Ah, I remember it well,” Old Took agrees. “And I remember a little wooden sword that went with it. Not to ward off the dragon, of course, but rather to ward off your brothers and sisters who wanted their own turn to play with it.”

“Yes, well, this little one won’t have to worry about that,” she says with a rub of her belly.

“I think an army of cousins shall be a fine replacement,” her father laughs. “You must visit us before the delivery, my dear. We haven’t seen you since Midsummer’s Eve.”

“Yes, I know. I promise to visit next month. It’s just that we’ve been very busy with preparations for the baby, not to mention looking for tenants...”

Bungo wishes she hadn’t said that.

Old Took raises a pair of bushy eyebrows. “Looking for tenants, you say? Interesting.”

“Oh Father, don’t get any ideas,” Belladonna warns.

“Anyway, it’s just the one house we need to fill,” Bungo cuts in hurriedly. “The others are going to our friends the Danderfluffs and our gardener and his family. I’m sure it will be no trouble at all filling the third.”

“Very well,” Old Took concedes, but Bungo can still see a glint in his eye. “I’ll send you on your way. Are you sure I can’t get you a set of wheels and a pony for that, my lad?”

Bungo doesn’t get a chance to answer over the sound of his father-in-law’s laughter as he strides away, swinging his walking stick to and fro.

“He won’t do anything, will he?” Bungo asks as he and Belladonna recommence their walk home.

“Knowing my father,” she replies, “he’ll either forget about it entirely before he makes it home for supper, or he’ll send a dozen distant cousins to our doorstep first thing in the morning."

* * *

Thankfully, it would seem that Old Took’s memory is on their side this time, because they receive no knocks on their door the next day. Or the day after that. Or several days after that. They don’t even receive a single letter of inquiry.

“I just don’t understand it,” says Bungo from his armchair late one morning, his legs crossed at the ankle on Linda’s pouf. “Perhaps I should have posted advertisements in the neighboring towns. But I was quite certain _someone_ in Hobbiton would be interested.”

“I wouldn’t worry, dear,” says Belladonna from the love seat, where she’s currently sewing her tenth baby bonnet of the week. “There’s no rush. The houses aren’t going anywhere.”

And neither is Bungo’s unease. “You don’t think it’s because of the fire, do you? Because the damage was quite minimal. Although I didn’t exactly relish informing Minto Bramble about it.”

That conversation had gone about as expected, which is to say Minto was very displeased and just barely contained his composure. Bungo doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone pinch the bridge of his nose quite so many times in the span of ten minutes.

“I do hope people haven’t been spreading false rumors.”

Belladonna snorts while threading a needle. “When have you known them not to?”

“It wasn’t _that_ much smoke,” Bungo insists, knowing full well that it was.

“How did Gandalf make that up to you, by the way? I’ve never known him to carry much money with him, and he clearly didn’t fix the damage himself.”

Bungo is in the midst of opening his mouth, not quite sure what’s about to come out of it or how honest it will be, when the doorbell rings.

“Thank goodness,” Bungo sighs, for both the distraction and the possibility that it’s a prospective tenant.

It’s two prospective tenants, in fact, although they come as a pair. A hobbit couple not much younger than the Bagginses stands on their front porch. Their name is Twofoot, and they would like to live on Bagshot Row.

“Come in, come in!” Bungo says excitedly, quickly moving back to allow them through the door.

The Twofeet—which is, indeed, the plural of Twofoot, as the Twofeet will be the first to tell you—step into the parlor and greet Belladonna. Or rather, they greet her belly, which is rather impossible to ignore.

“Oh my goodness, look at you!” Mrs. Twofoot declares. “When are you due?”

“Two more months.”

“Wonderful! Is this your first?”—Belladonna nods—“Oh, I’m so happy for you. Children truly are a blessing. We have one of our own. A little boy. He’s simply the sweetest thing. I wish we could have brought him, but he’s visiting with his grandparents today.”

“Well, it certainly would be wonderful to have more children nearby,” Bungo says.

“I’m afraid I must ask,” Mr. Twofoot cuts in, “the house we would be living in… it wouldn’t be the one that burned, would it? We heard some things, you see—people love to talk—and we were just a tad concerned.”

“Oh no, you have nothing to worry about. That house has already been promised to another family.” He’s lying, of course. The only family who’s been promised anything are the Danderfluffs, who wrote him in earnest requesting one of the unburnt houses. So that means Holman and his family have drawn the short straw—or rather the charred one. “But the damage really wasn’t as bad as you may have heard.”

“Well, that’s certainly a relief,” Mr. Twofoot sighs. “I must say the houses are looking very fine indeed, from what we’ve seen.”

“Yes, they are, aren’t they?” Bungo replies, liking the Twofeet more and my by the second. “The team has been working very hard. I’m sorry to say we can’t show you around today, but by next month things should be ready enough.”

“That sounds wonderful. We’ve been living on the other side of The Water since we were married, but we’re interested in something more spacious. We hope to have more children.”

“Oh, we should certainly be able to accommodate you. Why don’t we have a bite to eat and discuss it?”

Two hours later, the four of them have eaten elevenses and sipped chamomile and admired the garden through the open kitchen window. Their conversation has drifted from the new houses to the quality of blueberries this summer to the proper method for swaddling a baby. The Twofeet turn out to be very civilized hobbits, and Bungo feels certain they’ll be splendid neighbors. After a brief consultation with Belladonna, who agrees that they should be excellent additions to The Hill, Bungo offers them a place in number two Bagshot Row, and they settle on a price.

Everything seems to be going so well, which is why Bungo should have already predicted what happens next.

“I’m so pleased your father suggested we pay you a visit,” Mr. Twofoot says as they stand up from the kitchen table.

Bungo very nearly replies, “Yes, so am I,” before his brain catches up, and he actually says, “I beg your pardon?”

“Your father. Mungo Baggins,” Twofoot says, as if Bungo is unfamiliar with who his own father is. “He’s the one who sent us over.”

“You mean you didn’t see an advertisement?”

“An advertisement? About Bagshot Row? No, I haven’t seen any advertisements. Have you seen any advertisements, dear?”

Mrs. Twofoot hasn’t seen any advertisements either.

“Ah, of course,” Bungo replies as casually as possible, suddenly needing these hobbits out of his house as soon as possible. “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you. We look forward to having you as neighbors. I’ll let you know when you can come up and take a tour of the place. Good morning.”

Once he’s shown them to the door and closed it behind them, he returns to the kitchen without a word and begins to tidy up. Belladonna hovers nearby, and he can feel her eyes on him every so often, but she doesn’t say anything, not even when he scrubs one dish so violently it slips out of his hand and bangs into the edge of the sink with a clang.

When everything has been washed and put away, he takes a deep breath and turns to her. “I need to make a trip to the market. I’ve run out of something.”

Belladonna looks up from the love seat, where she’s returned to her sewing. “Would you like me to come with you?” she asks carefully.

“No, no. I should like to do this on my own.”

Belladonna nods. As he passes her to leave the room, she catches him by the wrist. “I’ll be right here when you get back,” she tells him.

Bungo gives her a weak smile and continues to the door. It sounds louder than normal when it closes behind him. He walks down The Hill, past Minto’s work carts, across the bridge, and beyond the market. He doesn’t stop until he reaches a neatly painted red door flanked by potted petunias in pristine condition. He stares at them for a few moments before knocking.

Mungo Baggins looks surprised to see him.

“Bungo. We weren’t expecting you. I wish you’d told us you were coming. Would you like some tea?”

“You took my posters down.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My advertisements, looking for new tenants. You took them down.”

Mungo sighs. “Well, I expected you would find out sooner or later. Yes, I took them down, to save you time. At any rate, that slogan was embarrassing. I did you a favor.”

Bungo chooses to ignore that last bit for the moment. “You made certain that no one would inquire about the house except the family you wanted us to choose.”

“Ah, so you’ve you met the Twofeet. Aren’t they a splendid couple?”

“That makes no difference.”

“But you did offer them the house?”

“Yes!” Bungo cries, and suddenly he’s like a wine bottle that’s finally been uncorked. “They were a wonderful couple, and I’m sure they’ll be excellent neighbors, but that doesn’t mean I approve of you making my decisions for me from afar. It was our choice to make, and I’m offended that you would insert yourself into our business in such a deceitful manner. I came of age several years ago, and soon I’m going to be responsible for a child of my own.”

Mungo raises his eyebrows. “Bungo, keep your voice down—”

“No! I won’t stand for this any longer. I don’t need your help, or your advice, or your opinions.” He really has no idea how his face got so close to his father’s, or how his forefinger ended up extended between them like a weapon. “Keep your nose out of my business and just _leave me alone_!”

Bungo turns on his heel and descends the first step away from the porch and from Mungo’s gobsmacked expression, but then he remembers something.

“And my slogan was perfectly acceptable,” he adds over his shoulder.

He doesn’t look back again after that.

On the way home, Bungo feels how he imagines Belladonna must feel after she’s smelled apples. The bridge feels unsteady as he crosses it, the walk up The Hill so steep he thinks he might stumble backwards. The front door feels so heavy he’s amazed that he’s able to push it open enough to slip through.

Belladonna stands up from the loveseat to face him when he walks into the parlor. It only takes him three strides across the floor to be in her arms, her belly nestled snugly between them, her mane of hair tickling his face.

She runs her hand soothingly up and down his back. “You slayed the beast,” she whispers in his ear, and he can’t help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titles of the chapters refer to months in the Shire calendar. The events of each chapter take place in that month, unless otherwise stated. This chapter occurs in Afterlithe, the seventh month, which equates to our June 24 to July 23.


	8. Wedmath

Bungo soon realizes that, while the Twofeet may be civilized, their young son Till is quite the opposite. Before he even has a chance to properly introduce himself, the boy is very purposely kicking mud onto the hem of Bungo’s trousers and pushing him out of the way to enter what will soon be his house.

Bagshot Row is nearly complete, with only a few finishing touches to be added. The doors are bare and the gardens practically nonexistent, but it’s more than satisfactory for a tour. Whether the tenants are satisfactory for the house, on the other hand, Bungo is beginning to doubt.

Till is as clean as he is polite. His grubby toes trail mud behind him wherever he steps, and his hands appear as if he’s just dunked his entire fist into a jar of jam—which he probably has. Bungo is already wincing with the expectation that he’ll stain the walls. They have yet to be painted, but he’d rather not have to explain to the painters where the sticky red substance originated.

Till’s parents seem to be unaware of how insufferable their son is, apologizing for his behavior halfheartedly and through notes of laughter. “He’s such a spirited child,” Mr. Twofoot explains, although exactly how evil the spirit is he doesn’t say.

When he’s not spinning in dizzying circles, Till is running in and out of rooms at top speed, bumping into door frames and bouncing on floorboards as he goes. It’s no wonder the Twofeet are looking for something more spacious. Bungo can’t imagine how a single vase has survived in their current home or how Till hasn’t set a fire worse than Gandalf’s by knocking over every candle.

Who would expect such a respectable couple to have such a nightmare for a child?

“If I may ask,” Bungo says after several minutes trying to speak over the sound of Till’s door-slamming, “is my father acquainted with young Till?”

“Do you know, now that you mention it, I don’t believe he is,” Mr. Twofoot replies, which explains a lot. “We should introduce them, and thank him for recommending us such a place.”

“Yes,” Bungo is quick to agree, nodding vigorously. “You should.”

Most definitely.

“Which room is this?” Mrs. Twofoot asks a few moments later.

Bungo considers their surroundings. “This should be the smoking room, I think. Or it could be the spare bedroom. I’m not quite sure. Hmm. I believe the workers left a floorplan in the master bedroom. Feel free to have a look around while I fetch it.”

 _Also feel free to wrangle your son_ , he thinks as he leaves the room.

He isn’t sure where Till has run off to, but he can hear enough wretched pounding to know he hasn’t found his way outside like Bungo had hoped he would. He would hate for the Twofeet to lose track of their son, but then again, he would like it very much.

He spots the necessary sheet of parchment as soon as he opens the wardrobe door. It’s resting on a crate full of unused tiles in the corner, so he steps inside to retrieve it. He hasn’t even had a chance to turn around when he hears the door creak shut behind him.

“That’s strange,” he mutters, feeling his way to the handle in the new darkness. He tries it, but the door won’t budge. He tries it again. Nothing. It would appear that Minto Bramble isn’t very skilled at door-making. But how did it shut in the first place?

That’s when he hears it. Giggling, young and malicious, on the other side of the wood.

“Till,” Bungo says harshly. “Open this door, please.”

The giggling continues, getting more and more distant now, until Bungo can’t hear it at all.

“Till! Till, come back and open this door this instant!”

There’s no answer.

He tries the handle again, to no avail.

Then Bungo hears Till’s horrible shout from the parlor: “Mr. Baggins told me we should leave now!”

“No!” Bungo calls frantically, trying the handle again and again. “I need help getting out of the wardrobe! Hello! Can you hear me? Please help!”

No one answers.

He can hear the front door closing now.

Sticklebats.

* * *

Several hours later, with the sun presumably having set, although he has no way to confirm it, Bungo sits in the corner of the wardrobe with his head on his knees. He’s tried the handle more times than he can count, and at one point he even tried to shove the door open with the help of a crate, to no avail. He’s trapped in the dark and, based on the ache in his stomach, has missed at least two meals, maybe even three. All because of that loathsome child.

 _My child will be nothing like that_ , he thinks to himself as he absentmindedly buttons and unbuttons his waistcoat. That is, if he ever gets out of this wardrobe to raise said child.

Belladonna should be returning from her day at the Great Smials soon. With any luck, she’ll realize he’s not in Bag End and come looking for him here. With no luck, she’ll have decided to spend the night, which means he’ll have to spend the night here. He wishes he’d brought his pipe, but he supposes it’s for the best that there won’t be another fire. He does have certain things he’s beginning to feel the need to do, however, and he’d rather not do them in here.

Why did that dreadful Till have to lock him in? Why did the Twofeet ever have to ask to live here? Why did his father ever have to send them in the first place? Why did they even decide to build these houses? He’d like to trace this problem to a decision made even further back, but he’s feeling rather sleepy at the moment, so he gives up and closes his eyes.

He’s just dozing off with his head against the wall when he hears a familiar voice calling his name, coming closer and closer outside the door.

“Bungo! Bungo, are you in here?”

“Belladonna! Oh, thank goodness. I’m in the bedroom! In the wardrobe!”

After a moment, the door opens to reveal Belladonna bathed in lantern light. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy to see her.

“That blasted Twofoot child locked me in,” he explains as he stumbles to his feet and stands beside her. “I don’t know how we’re going to tolerate living with him so close. What if he—”

Belladonna is not listening to him. “I can’t do it, Bungo,” she says.

He pauses mid-sentence, blinks. “What’s that?”

“I can’t do it. I can’t do it.” It’s all she can seem to say.

That’s when he notices her face. She looks pale, her brow twisted with worry, her eyes displaying something Bungo is unaccustomed to seeing there—fear.

“Slow down, now. Let’s get out of here and go home so we can talk about this.”

He takes the lantern from her hand—which he notices is shaking—and leads her out of the house and up the path to Bag End. Her shoulders are tense where he places his hand, her breath short. He sits her down on the front bench with the lantern in between them. The night is abuzz with fireflies and the chirp of late summer crickets. Bungo would have taken them inside, but he’s gasping for fresh air, and he isn’t sure if Belladonna would even make it beyond the entrance hall in her state.

“What’s all this about?” he asks gently, speaking over a sudden rumble in his still-empty belly.

Belladonna closes her eyes and lets out an unsteady breath. At last, she says, “Molly had her baby today.”

“Oh.” That means their own time is not far off. Bungo pushes away his sudden panic to focus on the conversation at hand. “Was it a boy or a girl?”

“A boy, just as predicted. They named him Sigismond. He's healthy, as far as I heard, and I'm sure he's beautiful, but I didn't get a very good look at him."

"Why?" Bungo asks.

"I fled," she says, looking embarrassed. "I had wanted to leave when I first arrived, so as not to disturb anyone. But my mother suggested I stay in the room and observe. To know what to expect.”

“Ah.” He’s beginning to understand, and he’s nervous to ask the next question, but he does: “And how was it?”

Belladonna looks up at him with wide eyes, shakes her head slowly and deliberately, and repeats, “I can’t do it.”

Bungo isn’t quite sure how to proceed from here. He’s certain he should be reassuring her somehow, but he’s not used to being on this side of things. Usually Belladonna is the one reassuring him—that she married him for love, that Gandalf won’t influence their child, that the tomatoes in the garden are growing very nicely indeed. He can’t remember the last time he’s been the one doing the comforting.

He makes an attempt: “Surely it couldn’t have been that bad.”

That was a mistake. Belladonna immediately launches into a vivid account of the experience, proving that yes, it was that bad, and no, she still can’t do it. She leaves out not a single grisly detail and hardly even uses a euphemism. By the end of it, Bungo, in addition to feeling lightheaded, is beginning to agree with her. _No one_ should be able to do what she’s just described. How her mother did it twelve times is a miracle.

But of course he knows enough not to say that. The last thing Belladonna needs at this moment is her husband being his usual worrisome self. Then again, after what she’s seen, he can’t exactly sit there and tell her it will be a bed of roses. So he raids his mind for the right thing to say, all the while watching Belladonna hold her belly with both hands as if to will the baby to stay inside.

Eventually, he comes up with something he hopes will be enough.

“Belladonna,” he says, and she looks up. “I know you’re frightened. I’m frightened too. Of a lot of things. I spent so many years thinking this would never happen, and now even after all these months I still don’t know if I’m prepared for what’s coming. But I feel like, with you by my side, I can do anything."

She smiles at him then, and he feels encouraged enough to continue.

"I may not be able to provide the same comfort for you," he tells her, "but I’ll be there for you if you need me. Even if all I can give you is a hand to squeeze.”

At that, he reaches over to take her hand, feeling the gentle pressure of her fingers closing around his in silent response.

“And anyway,” he adds, “if anyone can do it, you can.”

All at once Belladonna is leaning over the lantern to kiss him, the light from the flame casting a warm glow across their faces in the night.

“You are a good thing, Bungo Baggins,” she says.

They sit there quietly for a few moments, hands still linked, until Belladonna turns to him as if she’s just remembered something.

“Bungo?” she asks.

“Hmm?”

“Why were you locked in a wardrobe?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might remember me saying a few chapters back that I was aiming to have the chapter with Bilbo’s birth up on Hobbit Day. Then life (and The X-Files) happened, and I’m sorry to say I fell behind. But now I’m back and ready to finish this baby. (Pun absolutely intended.)
> 
> The titles of the chapters refer to months in the Shire calendar. The events of each chapter take place in that month, unless otherwise stated. This chapter occurs in Wedmath, the eighth month, which equates to our July 24 to August 22.
> 
> Here’s a fun fact: I came up with Till’s name by putting “devil” into [this hobbit name generator](http://chriswetherell.com/hobbit/). :)


	9. Halimath

He should have written the letters himself.

“But dear, how was I supposed to know they should have three different dates if you never told me?”

“I wrote it down.”

“Where?”

“On the back of the sheet with the addresses.”

“And how was I supposed to know that _if you never told me_?”

Bungo and Belladonna are on their way down The Hill, having been pulled away from the kitchen table mid-breakfast by the buzz of raucous conversation coming from the direction of the new houses. Bungo hurries ahead of his wife at first, but upon hearing the breathlessness of her voice as she tries to catch up, he slows himself. He’s rather used to the situation being reversed.

“Bungo, I can’t read your mind,” she continues, from his side now. “You showed me the letter you’d written for the Danderfluffs and said you had to run out to talk to the painter and for me to compose the other two the same way. And so I did. ‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Whoever, We are pleased to inform you that your new residence is ready, and you may move in as soon as the 22nd of the month. Yours respectfully, Mr. and Mrs. Bungo Baggins, Hobbiton.’ You should be grateful I knew enough to change the names for each of them.”

“Yes, of course. I’m not cross with you, Belladonna. It’s no one’s fault but my own.” He stops short at the bend in the lane. Belladonna grabs his arm to steady herself. “But you must forgive me for being mildly disturbed by the scene before us.”

It is a disturbing scene indeed.

The narrow lane, where it curves in front of the three new smials and as far as the eye can see as it continues south into town, is a bustle of activity. The air is thick with the sound of chatter and whinnying ponies. Hobbits, having a tendency to hoard useless items, are not meager movers. _Mathoms_ , Bungo thinks. _So many mathoms_.

The Danderfluffs, with a few recruited hands, are hurrying to unload furniture from one of three jam-packed carts at the front of the line. Behind them are the Twofeet, arms crossed impatiently as they observe the obstacle keeping them from their own home. They have four carts of their own, and behind them Bungo imagines are the Greenhands with their own carts, although the only evidence at the moment is a footstool waving good morning from atop a teetering pile several feet back.

They read the 22nd, so here they are, dishes and all.

“We did want company,” Belladonna points out quietly.

“Yes, but I was rather hoping to ease into it,” Bungo replies.

“Mr. Bungo!” Olo calls from the porch of number four. He sets down the tea table he’s carrying and approaches them. “Quite a throng you’ve got here.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Olo,” Bungo tells him. “We didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“It’s no trouble, Mr. Bungo. I’m just pleased we arrived when we did. Although I admit we were wondering why so many seemed to be following us.”

“We’ll help as much we can to speed things along, of course,” Bungo offers.

“It might do for you to make some sort of announcement first, Mr. Bungo,” Olo suggests, glancing at the nearby crowd of hobbits.

“Oh. An announcement.” Bungo gulps. “Yes, I suppose you’re right, Olo. That would be the responsible thing to do.”

And he’s nothing if not responsible, unfortunately.

Bungo’s feet feel unsteady against the ground as he moves closer to the crowd. He opens his mouth to say something before realizing he’s out of view for a portion of the present company. Looking around uncertainly, he finds a nearby dining chair and, with Olo’s permission, cautiously climbs on top of it, hands spread to keep his balance.

The queue reaches back even farther than he first suspected, and it puts a very unpleasant feeling in his stomach. “Excuse me,” he attempts, but he’s not loud enough to cover the voices of the mob. He tries it in a slightly louder voice, to no avail. A louder voice still, and nothing. Oh dear, how is this going to work?

“Hoy! Quiet!”

So that’s how it’s going to work.

Belladonna looks at her husband innocently from where she’s perched on her own chair beside him, fingers laced together over her round belly, as if she didn’t just holler loud enough to startle the whole of the Shire.

“Belladonna, you should hardly be standing on chairs in your condition,” Bungo hisses.

“Oh, hush and make your announcement. They’ve quieted down now.”

It’s true. Bungo turns his head to discover the line of hobbits staring at him expectantly, in total silence. Even the ponies appear to be listening.

“Er. Well, thank you very much for your attention,” he tells the crowd. “I must offer my apologies for the poor planning that has resulted in our current predicament. But rest assured, we will do our best to move things along, and you can expect to have your turn in no time.” He considers the state of the road. “I’ll ask that you please move your carts up The Hill toward Bag End as you finish unloading them. Then when everyone’s settled in, they can be moved back down in an orderly fashion. Thank you for your patience.”

The hobbits reerupt into more displeased chatter. Mrs. Twofoot hangs her head in disappointment, while young Till starts climbing the furniture pile like a tree.

Bungo turns to Belladonna, both of them still standing on their respective chairs. “Dear, perhaps it’s best if you go home. I don’t want you hurting yourself. It’s bad enough that there’s so much commotion.”

“Don’t be silly,” she replies with a wave of her hand. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”

“Belladonna, I really don’t think we should risk it.”

She sighs. “Really, darling, you worry too much. I’m not an invalid.”

And before he can offer her a hand, she’s climbing down. “See? Nothing to it!” she declares.

Then, just as quickly, she’s doubled over and clutching her belly with a moan.

“Belladonna!” Bungo shouts, scrambling off his chair and reaching out to her. “What’s happened? Come, let’s get you away from here. You shouldn’t be… What are you… Are you laughing?”

She is. She’s just frightened every bone in his body to rattling, and she’s laughing as if it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen. “I’m joking,” she gasps between guffaws. “Oh, you should have seen your face!”

She imitates it for him before dissolving into more laughter.

“That wasn’t funny!” Bungo cries, indignant, heart still pounding.

“I know, dear, I’m sorry,” Belladonna says when she’s finally caught her breath—but hasn’t lost the smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth. “But you really must stop fretting. I’ll be fi-iii-oooooh!” And she’s back to clutching her belly again.

“Oh, you are incorrigible. I told you that isn’t funny, now stop it.”

“No, Bungo,” she answers through gritted teeth. “This one isn’t a joke.”

Bungo stands there uncertainly, still not entirely convinced she’s telling the truth. It wouldn’t be unlike her to try to fool him more than once. His hands hover in the space between them, weighing his options. It’s the horrible groan Belladonna expels that finally causes him to close the distance.

“Is it… happening?” he asks, grasping her by the shoulders.

Belladonna nods forcefully.

It’s happening.

Three families and all their belongings are collected at the bottom of their hill, and it’s happening.

They did want company, Belladonna said. And it looks like they’re getting it.

Bungo stares wide-eyed at his wincing wife. “Well, then we must… er… we must…” Suddenly everything he’s ever been told in preparation for this moment has escaped him. All he can do is hold onto Belladonna and mutter half-sentences.

“We must go home,” she tells him helpfully, gradually straightening up and looking slightly less pained. “I think it’s stopped for now, but if I learned anything from Molly’s experience, it’s only just begun.”

“Yes, well, let’s get you to…” Bungo trails off, staring absently at Belladonna’s belly.

“Home,” she repeats.

“Home!” he echoes, perhaps a tad too loudly, and begins leading his wife back up The Hill, one hand on her elbow and the other on her back, his head still goodness knows where.

“Mr. Bungo, where are you off to?” he hears Olo Danderfluff call from behind him.

“Home,” he begins, glancing backwards, and then stops short, practicality hitting him like a pile of dirt. “Oh! We have to get the doctor!”

“But I need to get home first,” Belladonna pleads, tugging on his sleeve. “There will be time to get the doctor after.”

“No, I don’t want to leave you alone,” Bungo argues, pulling away for a moment to approach the Danderfluffs. “Mrs. Danderfluff, would you be so kind as to escort my wife back to Bag End? She’s having her baby, and I really must fetch the doctor.”

“Of course I will,” she responds, setting down the crate of toys she’d been carrying into the house. “Oh, there’s going to be a new babe under The Hill, how splendid! Olo, watch the children, the baby’s coming!”

Olo nearly drops the stack of dishes in his arms. “The baby? But you’re not even…” He notices Belladonna waving to him weakly from the lane and breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s right. Mrs. Baggins is with child. Well, good luck to you, Madam. I can’t wait to meet the young lass.”

“Or lad, dear,” his wife reminds him, guiding Belladonna away.

“Oh no, this one’s a lass, I can feel it. What a day!” With that he slaps Bungo hard on the back, jerking him out of the pond of distraction he’s fallen back into.

“What was I doing?” he asks himself. It would seem all of Belladonna’s pregnant absentmindedness has been transferred to him now that it’s all about to be over. Or rather, about to begin.

“Oh! The doctor!” he finally realizes, and with that he turns away from Olo and hurries down the lane. Or at least he would if the lane were empty. As it is, he stops just short of the Twofeet’s lead pony, nearly falling over at the sight of the long brown face so close to his own.

It’s then that he realizes that fetching the doctor will be a nearly impossible feat. One side of the road is blocked by a wooden fence, beyond which is the Sandybanks’ vegetable garden. On the other side there’s a hedgerow three hobbits tall. And in between… well, that’s already been established.

Bungo attempts to maneuver his way through the crowd, a bundle of nerves and excuse mes. It proves to be a near impossible task. All the carts are wide enough to cover almost the entire lane, and a number of them have items strapped to the sides that cover the difference. One of the Greenhands’ dresser drawers is making a significant dent in the hedgerow. Mr. Moss won’t be too happy about that.

Two-way roads would be a very helpful innovation right about now.

Bungo fidgets, considering his options while the pony stares at him with a rather judgmental expression he does not appreciate.

“How much longer will we have to wait?” asks Mr. Twofoot from atop the first cart.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Bungo sighs. “Her sister-in-law took the entire afternoon, but we’ve been told there’s really no predicting it. All depends on the baby, I suppose.”

“What’s that?” Mr. Twofoot wonders, face screwed up in confusion.

“I said it all depends on the… Oh, you mean the moving.” Bungo slaps his forehead with the realization. “I apologize. I don’t know if you saw, but my wife is having her baby just now, and I’m a bit distracted trying to figure out how I’m going to fetch the…”

Mr. Twofoot does not appear to care.

“Right, well, shouldn’t be long now. On the moving, that is. Everyone will get their turn, one after the next.”

Then, just as he’s contemplating sacrificing the buttons on his waistcoat by sliding between the carts and the hedges, the idea comes to him. Whichever method he chooses to get to the doctor, be it taking the long way round or cutting through gardens, it will take just as long for the doctor to return with him. That’s time that could be spent holding his wife’s hand. But if he didn’t have to be present while the doctor was fetched…

“Mr. Twofoot, my dear fellow, I must ask you a favor.”

Within five minutes, Bungo’s carefully enunciated message (“Tell Dr. Grubb he is needed at Bag End immediately to deliver Mrs. Baggins’ baby, and to take the back way, as fast as he can”) has been passed along from hobbit to hobbit, cart to cart, past pony after pony and end table after end table, to the very back of the line, where a young Greenhand cousin runs off to complete the task.

Meanwhile, Bungo steps into Bag End and hurries to the bedroom, calling Belladonna’s name the whole way. Mrs. Danderfluff peeks her head out and offers a reassuring smile.

“She’s doing fine. Still has quite a ways to go,” she tells him.

“How can you be certain?” he asks as he scoots past her to kneel beside the bed, taking Belladonna’s hand in his. She’s changed into her nightgown and is leaning against a mountain of pillows.

“I have had two of my own, you’ll remember, Mr. Bungo,” Mrs. Danderfluff retorts, settling into the chair in the corner. Bungo looks at her apologetically.

“Where’s the doctor?” Belladonna asks.

“He’ll be here soon.”

“You spoke with him?”

“Well, no…”

“What do you mean?”

“I sent someone to fetch him.”

Belladonna squeezes his hand rather painfully. “What if he’s not at home? What if they can’t find him? What will we do, Bungo?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Madam,” Mrs. Danderfluff offers. “I helped birth my sister’s babe not a year ago. Nothing to it. I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Bungo wonders what his father would think about a butcher’s wife delivering his child, but it would seem Mungo Baggins’ opinion is irrelevant at the moment.

“And I’m here too,” he offers.

Belladonna flashes him a weak smile. “Very inconvenient for this to happen to-oooo-da-aaaaay!” She winces through another contraction, and so does Bungo, thanks to her unrelenting grip on his hand. He supposes it’s the least he could do to share a bit of the pain.

“Well, there’s no helping that,” he breathes when she finally loosens her fingers. “And like you said, we wanted company. We can hardly complain about getting it, can we?”

“I suppose not,” Belladonna laughs. She ponders something, her free hand absentmindedly stroking the swell of her belly. “Do you know what this means? This morning was our last breakfast under The Hill just the two of us.”

Bungo takes a moment to reply, eyes fixed on where their entwined fingers rest on the bed. “I suppose so,” he says quietly, not quite sure how to continue. “Speaking of breakfast, I’d reckon it’s almost time for the second. Shall I bring you something?”

“Mmm, I’d love some fried potatoes,” Belladonna sighs, sinking further into the pillows.

“No pickles?” Bungo says with a smirk.

“Oh, will you never let me live that down?” she says with mock outrage.

“Never,” Bungo confirms, reluctantly separating their hands and moving towards the door. He opens his mouth to say something to Mrs. Danderfluff, but she waves him off.

“I’ll look after her. You get to cooking.”

He nods in thanks and makes his way to the kitchen.

It’s when he’s clearing away the half-finished plates from earlier in the morning that it happens.

There are tears puddling in his cold eggs.

He drops the plates into the basin with a clatter and presses his face into his palms, Belladonna’s comment about their last breakfast just the two of them echoing in his mind. Fear, excitement, and utter disbelief have blended to form the perfect wad of emotion in his throat. Change has never been Bungo’s strong suit, and as much as he’s wished for this day to come, it would have been preferable to know more precisely when it was coming.

If only it had been possible to send the baby a letter with an acceptable date of arrival.

_Pull yourself together, Baggins_ , he thinks as he wipes his eyes and straightens his waistcoat. _You’re not the one who’s about to… about to…_

He’d rather not think about what Belladonna is about to do, but he knows he can’t be a blubbering mess while she does it, so he forces back the last of his tears and sets about making second breakfast.

They’re nearly done eating—Belladonna having almost overturned her plate during another contraction halfway through the meal—when the doorbell rings.

Bungo tenses, a forkful of potatoes hovering on its way to his mouth. “The doctor.”

Mrs. Danderfluff sets down her mug of tea and stands up. “Don’t you even think about moving, Mr. Bungo. I’ll get it.”

Belladonna turns to her husband desperately. “Bungo, I can’t do this.”

Bungo calls upon whatever unremarkable, practical version of courage he possesses and looks his wife in the eye. “Yes, you can. You’re Belladonna Took.”

“Belladonna Baggins,” she corrects, and the fondness in her eyes tells him she doesn’t mean it sardonically.

He puts his plate on the bedside table and takes her hand. “You’re Belladonna, full stop. You can do anything.”

She squeezes his hand, gently this time, as they hear the front door shut.

This is it. It’s really happening now.

“Mr. Bungo, this fellow is here to see you.”

Bungo turns, wondering why Mrs. Danderfluff would refer to Dr. Grubb in such a way. He gets his answer immediately.

“You called for me, Bungo?” says Belladonna’s cousin Marroc Chubb from the doorway.

“Marroc? What are you doing here?”

“A young hobbit came knocking on my door telling me I had to get to Bag End right away to deliver some missing bags for the baby? I didn’t quite understand, but just to be safe, I brought these.” Marroc holds up several burlap sacks. “Where’s the baby?”

“Those useless…” Bungo remembers his manners before going any further, but he can’t censor the rage in his eyes.

“Bungo? What’s happening? Where’s the do-ooooooctor?” Belladonna asks, wincing through another contraction.

“Stay here,” he tells her, sliding off the bed. “I’m going to get him. Marroc, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. There’s been a rather annoying mix-up, and unless you can deliver a baby, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Marroc leaves without another word.

“Bungo,” Belladonna calls to her husband as he begins to follow.

He turns to find her staring down at the fabric of her nightgown, where a stain is spreading between her legs.

“What’s happened?” he asks frantically, hurrying over to her.

“Her water broke, Mr. Bungo,” Mrs. Danderfluff explains. “You best get that doctor.”

A few moments later, Bungo is stomping down the lane cursing the day they chose to build these houses. “Let me through, please,” he orders the crowd on approach.

None of them move. They simply blink at him.

He takes one final look at the cluttered lane before him. There’s no getting through it, around it or over it, and if he can’t trust this lot to comprehend a simple request to fetch the doctor, he doubts they’ll get out of his way in a timely manner. He drags his gaze reluctantly to the left.

Sticklebats.

“Grubb and Chubb are two very different names, by the way,” he remarks before hurtling himself over the fence and into the Sandybanks’ vegetable garden.

He doesn’t run as fast as he’d like to. Leaping over fences and cutting through neighbors’ gardens is wild enough behavior; he isn’t about to trample cabbage patches and knock over wheelbarrows in the process. He takes careful, hurried steps, and each time he meets a new fence he hesitates, scrutinizing the strength of the wood. He’d hate to break something, and that includes his bones.

At one point he forgets which way to turn and blushes to ask a bewildered old woman shelling peas by her back door to point him in the direction of the bridge. She points wordlessly, and after many thank yous, he’s off again.

His fist pauses an inch away from the wood of Dr. Grubb’s door. He quickly smoothes his jacket, tames his wind-blown curls as well as he can, and allows his breath to catch up to him. Then he knocks.

As soon as Dr. Grubb opens the door to Bungo’s frantic expression, he turns around to gather his things. “Let’s deliver this baby,” he declares, donning his hat and stepping onto his porch.

Bungo can’t stop himself. He throws his arms around the doctor in a suffocating hug. Grubb merely laughs.

“I’m sorry,” Bungo says when he withdraws. “That was terribly inappropriate.”

“It’s quite all right,” Grubb says good-naturedly. “Happens more often than you’d think. Usually after the baby is born, but no matter. Now, shall we get moving?”

Bungo is so overcome with relief that it takes him several moments to realize that they’re taking the conventional route to Bag End—the one that uses roads instead of gardens. In his haste to retrieve the doctor, he hadn’t really considered how they would get back. He suddenly feels very foolish, opting to inform Dr. Grubb of Belladonna’s condition when he should really be explaining why they’ll have to take a detour.

He’s in the middle of swallowing his pride and preparing to come out with it as they turn the corner onto the road that leads to The Hill, but he’s silenced by what he discovers up ahead. Or rather, what he doesn’t discover. The road is clear, all the carts having disappeared and all the hobbits with them.

Dr. Grubb continues talking as if nothing is amiss, which for him is true. Bungo, however, is rather distracted looking this way and that in search of an explanation for the crowd’s sudden disappearance. It certainly hasn’t been long enough for them to have finished moving in. At the rate they were going, Bungo wasn’t expecting that to happen until his child’s first birthday.

When they pass the first side road, Bungo spots them out of the corner of his eye. There they are—all the carts, with all the ponies that pull them and all his new neighbors with all their belongings. The carts are facing away from him, but the hobbits have turned to monitor the main road, and as he passes they offer him a few scattered waves.

Bungo reciprocates as surreptitiously as possible, to avoid Dr. Grubb catching on. As it is, he’s staring straight ahead and hasn’t noticed them. As much as Bungo’s heart pangs with gratitude and a flash of guilt for thinking so poorly of them earlier, he’d much prefer to make it home without anything more to explain.

“The new houses look splendid,” Dr. Grubb remarks as they pass them.

Bungo sighs in relief and considers cutting the rent in half.

* * *

A few hours later, Bungo sits in an armchair pulled to the side of the bed and blinks tears away from the corners of his eyes as Belladonna squeezes his hand harder than she has all day. She also happens to be screaming.

“That’s it, Mrs. Baggins. Give me another push,” Dr. Grubb is urging from between her knees.

Belladonna’s face is red with the effort. Bungo’s, on the other hand, is pale white. As it is, whatever’s happening down the bed is hidden by her nightgown, but Bungo can imagine it. That, coupled with seeing his wife in pain, multiplied by her unyielding grip on his hand, is doing quite the number on his nerves.

Belladonna’s wet curls are stuck flat against her forehead. Desperate to prove himself useful beyond his apparently very squeezable hand, he somehow manages to pry himself apart from her and travel across the room to dampen a cloth in the water basin. As he turns back to place it on her head, something happens.

He sees it.

From this angle, everything that was hidden to him earlier is now on full display.

He stops in the middle of the room, cloth dripping in his hand.

He feels lightheaded.

“Push!” Dr. Grubb is saying, and Belladonna does.

That’s… That’s…

Oh dear.

Bungo bends over, bracing his hands on his knees, his breathing shallow.

“I… I need air,” he mutters, unbuttoning his collar.

Belladonna screams again, and it’s the last thing he hears before he hits the carpet.

It’s yet another scream that wakes him. He opens his eyes to rounded ceilings swaying unsteadily across his vision. He tries to lift his head but is overcome with dizziness. It takes him three failed attempts before he’s able to prop himself up on his elbows. When he takes in the situation before him and hears another cry from his wife, he feels woozy again.

Suddenly Mrs. Danderfluff is hovering over him. Or rather, two Mrs. Danderfluffs, overlapping like twin ghosts and staring at him with concern. “Mr. Bungo?” they ask him, voice echoing. “Mr. Bungo, we should get you out of here.”

“Nuh, have to stay. B-baby,” he mutters, and it’s as if the words are coming out several seconds after he forms them.

“The baby’s almost here,” Mrs. Danderfluff coos, offering her hand. He reaches for it and misses. She grabs it herself and drags him to his feet with no small effort. “Let’s get you into the parlor with a cup of tea while your wife finishes up, shall we?”

“Nuh,” is all he can say as he’s guided into the hall, Belladonna’s groans getting fainter and fainter behind him as they make their way to the parlor.

When he sees someone already sitting in his armchair, he thinks he must be hallucinating. Perhaps he hit his head when he fell. There’s no other explanation for why Mungo Baggins is in his parlor smoking a pipe.

“Father?” Bungo says, blinking hard.

Mungo stands to greet him. “Good afternoon, son. How is she doing? I heard Dr. Grubb is handling things.”

“What? Oh, yes. He is.” The fog is clearing in Bungo’s head. His father’s presence is judgmental enough to get even the most hopeless drunkard to sober up.

“Good. Very good,” Mungo says with a smirk, no doubt concocting some mock-polite way to rub it in Old Took’s face.

“I beg your pardon, Father, but what are you doing here?” Bungo finally asks.

“Well, they came to get me, of course.”

“Who?” Bungo collapses into the loveseat, and Mungo retreats into the armchair.

“A young hobbit. I don’t believe he introduced himself. He came knocking on our door saying I was wanted at Bag End. Did you not send him?”

“Oh, yes. Of course I did,” Bungo lies. Inside, he’s back to cursing his neighbors. It’s one thing to finally remove themselves from the lane for him. It’s another to take it upon themselves to fetch relatives he never even asked for, especially ones with whom he’s recently quarreled. “Where is Mother?” he wonders.

“She was having tea with her sister when the boy called. I asked Linda to fetch her, so I expect she’ll be on her way soon enough. Tell me, how is it going?”

“It’s…” Bungo’s mind flashes to rather unpleasant images, and he shakes them away. “It’s going,” he finishes as Mrs. Danderfluff appears from the kitchen, where she had earlier slipped away to make tea.

She sets it on the table and scurries back to the bedroom with a polite nod in each of their directions.

“Are you quite all right?” Mungo asks, narrowing his eyes over the rim of his mug.

“I’m… I’m…” Bungo stares into the crackling fire and allows reality to wash over him. “I’m a dreadful husband.”

Mungo coughs, taken aback. “What have you done?”

Bungo sighs, taking a sip of his tea. “I fainted. Right there in the bedroom. She’s in there pushing a…” He trails off, remembering who he’s talking to. “She’s having a much harder time of it than I am, that is. And there I was passed out on the carpet. And here I am now, sipping tea by the hearth while she labors away to give life to our child.”

Mungo scoffs. “I wasn’t in the room when any of you were born. I sat in the parlor just like this, and I waited. What can we be expected to do? In any case, it’s hardly proper for us to see such things. I’m surprised you stayed so long.”

Bungo looks at his father incredulously. “But surely I could provide some comfort for her. So she’s not alone.”

Mungo waves a hand. “I should think Belladonna of all ladies will be fine on her own. She’s something fierce, that one, and it sounds as if she’s handled far worse without you holding her hand, if the rumors are to believed.”

Something aches in Bungo at these words. There’s much of the usual discomfort over his father’s disparagement of Belladonna’s past, blended with a new realization.

“That’s just it, though,” he begins. “She doesn’t need me, does she? She’s the remarkable Belladonna Took. She can handle herself. She can go on adventures and birth a child and do anything she can think of all on her own. I’m just the Baggins flitting around uselessly beside her. And it’ll be the same with this child. It’ll take after her, no doubt. And how could it not, given the choice? Everyone will remember the famous Belladonna Took’s son, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons. I’ll just be an afterthought.”

Mungo stares at his son in disbelief.

Bungo is thoroughly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Father,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “I must have hit my head a bit hard in the bedroom. I can’t fathom why on earth I would go on such a rant in front of you.”

“It’s not that I’m worried about,” Mungo tells him. “You have always been prone to nervous babbling, Bungo, I won’t pretend you haven’t.” Bungo winces at that. “I’m more concerned with why you would feel this way in the first place,” Mungo continues.

Bungo glances up, confused.

“Do you really think so little of yourself? Of your marriage?”

“Father, I—”

“I may not have been the most wholehearted supporter of the union in the beginning, and goodness knows I don’t usually agree with the Tooks’… lifestyle. But there’s not a moment I witness of you and Belladonna together where you both don’t look like the happiest hobbits in the Shire.”

Well, this is unexpected.

“You two are better for each other, I’ve seen it time and time again. And your child will be a reflection of that. A tiny, rosy-cheeked reflection of the both of you. Don’t you for a second think that you’re not important. I’m counting on you to make sure that fauntling being born in there is respectable, no matter how much Tookishness is in its blood. And bebother you, Bungo, you’ve gone and made me cry.”

“Me? _You’re_ the one giving the emotional speech!” Bungo laughs through the tears clouding his eyes and leans over to give his father a hug. It’s tense at first—this isn’t something they do very often—but Mungo soon softens, giving his son a pat on the back.

After that they sit in silence, awkwardly folding and unfolding their pocket handkerchiefs.

Dr. Grubb steps into the parlor not long after that, just as the sun is setting and Bungo’s tea has gone cold in his hands. Mrs. Danderfluff follows close behind wearing a wide grin. Bungo scrambles out of his seat.

Grubb nods to him. “It all went very well. You can go see them now.”

Them. See _them_.

There’s a moment of hesitation while Bungo waits for his nervous stomach to stop weighing him down. When he’s finally able to move his legs, he doesn’t think he’s ever moved them so fast. The pictures on the wall are pastel burs.

He opens the door with such force he nearly falls into the bedroom. “Belladonna, are you all…”

There they are, sitting on the bed. The two of them. Belladonna is in a fresh nightgown, quilt laid neatly across her lap. She looks tired, but she’s smiling. Resting in her arms, wrapped snugly in a lace-trimmed blanket, is what they’ve been waiting nine months—nay, nine years—for.

Bungo swallows on a dry throat. “That’s our…”

“Son,” Belladonna finishes, and the warmth in her eyes could replace a hearth in winter.

Son. They have a son.

Bungo takes a tentative step towards the bed, a creaky floorboard beneath his heel cutting through the hush in the room. The baby shifts in his mother’s arms, the smallest whimper escaping him, and Bungo stops short, afraid of disturbing him.

“Oh, stop your fretting and get over here,” Belladonna laughs. “He wants to meet his Papa.”

Something melts inside him to hear her say that, and he floats rather than walks the rest of the way to the bed. Belladonna pats the empty space beside her, and Bungo slides into it, settling himself atop the quilt and doing his best not to move the mattress.

Belladonna adjusts the baby in her arms to give him a better view. And oh, what a view it is. The child is asleep, soft eyelashes fluttering against pink cheeks. He has the faintest dusting of hair across his scalp—lighter than his mother’s raven black but not quite as light as his father’s chestnut. His fingers open and close slowly under his chin like a resting butterfly’s wings.

“He has your nose,” Belladonna points out, leaning down to place a kiss on it. It twitches at the contact, and she chuckles.

Bungo is struggling to wrap his mind around the fact that such a nose even exists; he hardly has the brainpower to determine where it came from. He makes a grunt of acknowledgment, momentarily forgetting what shape words take.

“Are you ready to hold him?” Belladonna asks carefully. Bungo regards her flushed face and sweat-dampened curls. Mere hours ago she was crushing his hand with her own, telling him how frightened she was. Now she’s guiding him through these first moments. She’s made it to the other side as strong as ever.

Bungo nods, and Belladonna gently moves the child into his embrace. The baby turns his face into the crook of Bungo’s elbow. He’s held babies before. They both have. But this one is his. Theirs. He can feel the weight of this fact in his arms. But it’s not a weight like a burden. Instead, it’s like finally filling a jar that was made to hold something but has sat empty on the shelf until now. It’s a comfortable weight, a correct weight. If he loses it, Bungo thinks, some balance will be lost, and he’ll be shot into the sky as if from the lighter side of a seesaw.

The child stirs, face contorting in a powerful yawn, and lifts his eyelids. Bungo holds his breath.

Their gazes meet, and Bungo feels like he’s opening his own eyes for the first time.

A thought occurs to him.

“What color are they? His eyes?”

“Blue,” Belladonna answers as if it’s obvious.

“Are they really?” Bungo leans closer. The boy blinks up at him. “I thought they were a sort of gold.”

“Gold?” Belladonna scoffs. She rests her chin on her husband’s shoulder to take another look. “Oh, I see. Well, isn’t that remarkable.”

They sit like that for a few moments, enfolded together on the bed, all three of them. Three. Bungo’s never had a favorite number before, but he does now.

Small fingers are curling into his sleeve when it comes to him.

“Bilbo,” Bungo murmurs. It’s the easiest word he’s ever uttered.

“Bilbo,” Belladonna whispers in return.

“Bilbo Baggins,” they say in unison, and Bilbo gazes up at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titles of the chapters refer to months in the Shire calendar. The events of each chapter take place in that month, unless otherwise stated. This chapter occurs in Halimath, the ninth month, which equates to our August 23 to September 21.
> 
> Bilbo's here! This was actually one of the first chapters I wrote for this fic, and I've been really excited to share it. After this will be a brief epilogue.
> 
> Just a note about Bilbo's hair. I described it as dark because that's what little Bilbo in the movie has, and I also remember reading in one of the design books that his hair was supposed to have lightened from being out in his garden. Also Martin Freeman's eyes are one of the greatest mysteries of the universe, hence that little reference.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	10. Epilogue

“Where’s my grandson?” Old Took bellows merrily as he travels down the hall.

“Who told you? We wanted you to be surprised,” Belladonna says with a pout when her father enters the bedroom, Adamanta trailing behind him with a smirk.

“Mrs. Brownlock told me five months ago,” Old Took replies. “I told you she’s never wrong.”

“Pure coincidence,” Mungo Baggins comments from the chair in the corner, alongside Laura, who is still dabbing away the tears from her own first glimpse not long ago.

“No such thing,” Old Took retorts, earning an eye roll in return. Bungo silently pleads with them not to start another Incident with his newborn son in the room.

Old Took and his wife lean over the bed, where the child is sleeping in his mother’s arms.

“Oh, he’s beautiful,” Adamanta sighs, giving her daughter a kiss on the head.

“Look at that, he’s got my nose,” Old Took remarks proudly.

Bungo, who is sitting in the window seat, considers the enormous bulb protruding from his father-in-law’s face and looks desperately at Belladonna, lamenting the implications. She gives him the barest headshake of reassurance that no, your nose isn’t like that, and yes, he takes after you.

“What’s his name, dear?” Adamanta asks.

“Bilbo,” the Bagginses say in unison, and the baby stirs as if called upon.

“Bilbo Baggins,” Old Took repeats, testing it out on his tongue. “Excellent. That’ll look splendid in the history books. And the songs! Nothing like a bit of alliteration.”

“Right now the only songs for him are lullabies,” Belladonna says, caressing Bilbo’s face with her forefinger.

“He’s very quiet,” Old Took observes, sounding slightly disturbed. “Very different from his mother. Half of Tuckborough heard you when you came out.”

“He’s a Baggins, that’s why,” Mungo explains. “Bungo was quiet as a mouse when he was born. Why cry over nothing?”

Old Took is just about to reply, no doubt with some scathing remark, when he’s cut off by an alarming scream coming from Belladonna’s arms. Bilbo is crying, his face turning redder by the second. Belladonna attempts to soothe him, and Bungo rushes over.

“Ah yes, such a Baggins,” Old Took says with a grin, and Mungo seethes.

“Yes, I know, my darling,” Belladonna is saying sympathetically to the bawling bundle in her arms. “I don’t like it when your grandfathers argue either.”

Said grandfathers harrumph at that, managing to appear at least a little bit guilty.

After a few more rocks and increasingly frantic shushing from both his parents, both of whom are accustomed to handing crying children off to more capable family members, Bilbo lets out a few closing hiccups and finally quiets down.

As distressing as it was for Bungo to hear his son’s cries, he can’t help but think it looked quite cathartic. He could do with a tantrum himself every now and again, particularly when certain relatives are refusing to get along.

“I wonder,” Belladonna says softly so as not to set Bilbo off again, “if someone might take him to his cradle? My arms have gone numb.”

Old Took leaps forward before anyone else has a chance to offer. “I would like nothing better, my dear,” he declares, taking Bilbo and carrying him across the room to the cradle, bouncing him in his arms all the while. It sets Bungo’s heart racing, and if Mungo’s face is any indication, the same can be said for him.

It’s when Old Took tries to turn down the blanket with one hand while balancing Bilbo in the other that Mungo decides to take action. He runs over, muttering about safety, and handles the blanket himself.

Once Bilbo is tucked in, neither gentleman moves away. Perhaps they see it as another competition of who can stand staring at their grandson the longest. Perhaps their gazes are just magnetized to the child, much like Bungo’s was when he first laid eyes on him. They stand there, side by side, not speaking, staring down together at the only thing they have in common.

Surely some magic must have occurred. He watches his father and father-in-law fondly from the bed next to Belladonna, thinking maybe this is it. Maybe they’ll be able to set aside their differences and get along. Maybe Bilbo will be able to have both his grandfathers at his birthday parties without the worry of a riot starting. Maybe the Tooks and the Bagginses aren’t so different after all, and all it took was a sleeping child to teach them that.

“He has _my_ nose, if we’re being accurate,” Mungo says suddenly.

Or maybe it was just a fluke.

“Oh no, it’s definitely mine,” Old Took insists. “You just can’t tell yet because his face is so small. But you’ll see soon enough.”

“I suppose you’re as good at predicting how babies' noses will grow as that old midwife is as at predicting their sex?” Mungo says sardonically.

“I don’t claim to be prophetic,” Old Took replies, “but I _have_ seen plenty of babies in my day.”

“And I haven’t?” Mungo retorts.

“Well, I hardly think five is comparable to _twelve_ , not to mention grandchildren…”

They continue like this for a while, in hushed tones so as not to disturb the baby, with Bilbo’s grandmothers sharing a chuckle off to the side. Something about it suddenly feels very comforting, and as Belladonna dozes against his shoulder on the bed, Bungo can’t help but smile.

However, when they start lifting up the blanket to determine whose feet Bilbo inherited, he chooses to put a stop to it.

It’s obvious they’re from him.

He’s just about to ease Belladonna’s head off his shoulder and onto a pillow when he hears a knock at the front door. “I wonder who that is,” he remarks, taking stock of the room.

“Oh, I’ve invited some of the family over to see the baby,” Old Took explains.

Bungo freezes. “How many is _some_?”

“Just a dozen or so,” the grey-haired hobbit says with a shrug.

 _Well_ , Bungo thinks as he walks with clenched fists towards the continuously rattling door, _We’ve certainly gotten that company we wanted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, folks! She being me, of course. Thanks to everyone who read and for all your lovely comments. I really appreciate it, and I hope you've enjoyed.
> 
> Reminder that I'm on [Tumblr](http://myrtlebroadbelt.tumblr.com/).


End file.
